The Lion's Mockingbird
by Pippit
Summary: After the events at Kirkwall, Cullen was only too happy to leave his past behind and join the fabled Inquisition as its Commander. But in a land torn with civil unrest and strife, he quickly finds things spiralling out of control. . . including his forbidden interest in the only one who can save them. Gradual F!Lavellan/Cullen
1. Chapter 1

Her hand ghosted over the ripening fields of wheat. The bright sun warmed her back and gave a bluish-gold tint to her otherwise pale hair, illuminating her eyes. Leather boots crunched against soft soil as placid farmers went about their business, druffalos contentedly grazing in the rolling plains and meadows surrounding Redcliffe Farms.

It was peaceful. Too peaceful. Another Rift would open sooner or later, and demons would pour out to destroy anything they could touch as the Veil would be torn to shreds. Joy would quickly turn into burnt ashes on that fateful day, the land filling with pained screams instead of children's laughter, and fresh, crimson blood would water the parched crops in place of water.

Ellaria's slender body swayed in the fragrant breeze as she followed a small path, well hidden amidst the blossoming cherry trees. Her steps became lighter as she left the isolated hamlet, traipsing up a grassy hillock as thickets of undergrowth tickled her ankles. Soon she was running, swiftly skipping over rocks and splashing through burbling streams. Laughter escaped her lips in a rush as she darted between trees like a faerie, losing herself in the beautiful landscape.

She was free here. Unridiculed. No one would mock her, call her insulting names, or even lock her up in suffocating dungeons for their twisted amusement. For a precious, fleeting moment she was Ellaria again, not the Herald. A simple elf, one who loved hunting and singing and dancing.

Stumbling onto a boulder, she gasped for breath as her palms scraped against jagged gravel. Ellaria paused, looking around as her chest heaved for air and ignoring the fresh sting in her delicate hands.

A beaten-down wooden sign was nailed onto a sycamore sapling, messy handwriting calling the area, _Dead Ram Grove._ She smiled crookedly, watching as a silver-tailed fox dived into the shadows of a tenebrific den beneath the gnarled rots of a beechwood tree. A kestrel hovered in the air above, a mere pinprick in the baby-blue sky as it searched for its next meal, its feathered wings brushing the clouds.

Ellaria followed the sound of rushing water, delighted when she came across a secluded alcove higher up, the very atmosphere tasting sweeter to her lungs. A waterfall stood proudly near the back as it displayed a shallow pond, spindleweed and elfroot flourishing near the pebbled banks.

Unsheathing the dirk strapped across her back, she deftly sliced off a stem from the latter plant, crushing it against a rock until it formed a thick, gooey paste, and rubbing it into the shallow cuts on her hands. The herb smarted at first, eventually making her fingers tingle with a burning relief. Elfroot had been a necessity back when Ellaria was younger, as her tribe had relied on little else during the harvest seasons, and she was always getting injured to prove herself to them. They oftentimes had called her goat in Dalish.

She put her blade away, scampering up a ridge of honeycombed soapstone to see a breathtaking view of the farms spread out beneath her, the heights dizzying and making her faintly homesick. A purple martin sang to its mate in the dappled foliage clustered nearby, flashing its blue-black wings in happiness as it fluttered this way and that.

Happiness. She hadn't felt that in a long time, she thought, sitting down cross-legged. Even now she was only distracting herself. As if reminding her of fate, her arm jerked forwards in a convulsion of its own will, a sickly blue-green light emanating from it as wispy tendrils encircled her, whispering of despair and hatred. Ellaria cried out in frantic pain, nearly toppling from the rocks to her death below. Her eyes flashed white, and for a terrifying moment she couldn't see. Blind. She was _blind_.

Then it was gone, and all Ellaria could hear was her panicked, rushed heartbeat thudding erratically as sight slowly returned. She swallowed thickly, sweat dripping down her forehead and neck to stain the borrowed clothes she wore.

"Stupid," she muttered, climbing to her feet unsteadily. Ellaria tripped over a stone as she moved away, cursing angrily when she spotted the innocuous culprit. With a flushed face she picked it up and threw it as hard as she could over the scenic bluffs, her nostrils flaring in a bout of strangled emotion. It clattered noisily off a few boulders, landing in the middle of a barley field and startling a young woman.

It was Seanna, she realised, a harmless, sweet-natured girl who constantly smelled of manure, had doe-eyes, a widow's peak, and a heart-shaped face to compliment her generous, if not excitable, nature. She was leading a sway-backed mare to pasture when the pebble alerted her, waving merrily when she recognised Ellaria. The elf returned the gesture, wincing as her arm spasmed uncontrollably. She quickly turned away, slipping down the outcrop to land in the shallow pool. Flecks of crystal-clear water splashed onto her boots and legs.

 _I just wanted to be at peace,_ she thought dourly, kicking at some dirt. Her brow furrowed thoughtfully when her stomach rumbled in hunger. It was almost evening, and the sky was swathed in streaks of burgundy, lavender, and teal as the sun started to dip below the horizon, the clouds thinly stretched and painted a beguiling pinkish-orange.

Ellaria sat down next to the waterfall beneath a stately oak that dappled the patched earth with coloured sunshine, its huge twisting roots enveloping her protectively like a mother would her beloved child.

She didn't want to go back. Everyone—excluding her party, though sometimes she thought different—feared her. They were scared of her power, whispering slanders behind her back. That she was a fraud, that the Maker wouldn't dare to choose a Dalish elf to save the dying world. Dennet was more amiable than most, though even his hospitality had limits.

Those that didn't acknowledge her as Herald treated her doubtfully. To some she was a servant, to others a tool. And when she requested help for the war effort they wanted more than they could give. It made her ragged, running around like a bloody fool doing menial tasks. It was a waste of time, she decided. Yet what else could she do?

One young man in Haven had even the audacity to demand she get on her knees and suck his member. In front of Cullen, no less. Never had she felt more embarrassed, fleeing at the first opportunity despite the ex-templar's desperate attempts to make her stay.

Mortified, she'd avoided Cullen at all costs so far, though he wanted to speak with her gathering from what her companions hinted at. Probably to apologise, she guessed. But it didn't matter, as her face blushed violently each time she thought of it. The shame and disgrace would never really vanish.

Footsteps alerted her to another's presence. Ellaria stiffened, warily reaching for her dagger as an instinct. She hadn't thought to bring her longbow with her, and scolded herself resoundedly for the foolish, amateur mistake. "Hello?" she called out, listening to her voice echo and bounce off the woods.

"You missed supper." Solas appeared, carrying a wooden bowl and a hunk of steaming bread. "Cassandra asked after you."

Ellaria relaxed, wrinkling her nose at the smell of mushrooms wafting up from what she assumed was stew. "How did you know where I was?"

Solas smiled briefly, carefully skirting the pond's edges so that he wouldn't get his feet wet. He laid the food beside her, sitting a respectable distance away. "You were throwing rocks?"

Ellaria glanced at him sharply, studying his aquiline nose. "I was angry," she admitted, following his gaze.

Solas dipped his head at her response, staring at the water reflectively. He was by no means handsome, but his kindness, and the way he carried himself made up for it tenfold, she thought. A strange comfort was taken in the fact that she wasn't the only one abused by the public, though they seemed to despise him more as he was a mage. It was almost comical how he never took offence, brushing off their petty words with a knowing smile.

She wished she could.

"Something seems to be troubling you."

Ellaria brought her knees up to her chest. "Huh." A noise of hollow laughter died in her throat as she looked at him. "Is it. . . is it really that obvious?" Did her whole party think her fragile? She wouldn't dispute it, yet it was still disheartening. Here she thought herself a decent liar.

"No." Solas leaned back on his hands, his knobbed beechwood stave laying beside him. "You hide it well." He was dressed in homely cotton breeches, a patched robe covering his lean upper body. There was a decorative slit in the fabric on both sides, showcasing a thin undershirt beneath. Ellaria averted her eyes, hoping their garments would all be washed soon. Dennet's wife—who refused to be called anything other than Elaina—had insisted they be cleaned from their harsh travels, not taking dissent as an answer. The woman was like a pesky shrew.

"I suppose you would know," Ellaria said softly, running a hand through her braided hair. Solas was easily the most perceptive of them all, which wasn't hard to believe considering his lofty and mysterious place as a mage in their group. Magic had always eluded her own grasp as if it was a giggling child, and she had neither the ambition nor patience to pursue it despite her Keeper's urging. Besides, there had been no need for sorcerers in her old tribe, only hunters. Food and protection always prevailed over simple curiosity.

" _Misery knows no bounds as a hero,_ " Solas quoted. Ellaria felt stunned at first, then giddy as she grinned at him like an idiot. He had read the book she gifted him. And had recited it in Dalish, no less. Her heart swelled proudly, a pureness in her adoring gaze.

" _Misery follows those who have the ability to wield consequences,_ " she finished, lifting her chin up in a gesture of shock. "I didn't think you would read the novel."

He seemed offended, though she could tell it was a mockery as a dark humour was laced in his ice-blue eyes. "Of course I would. We have similar tastes, and I know the Herald wouldn't squander her time reading something that was poorly written."

"Please don't call me Herald," she said, surprised at how begging her voice sounded. She touched his hand in an entreating manner. "I don't like it."

"That's not what you say to the locals," Solas pointed out in a sagacious manner, his angular face softening considerably at her tone.

"A sham," Ellaria retorted swiftly. "I. . ." She trailed off, suddenly nervous as he looked at her arm. She withdrew it quickly, cradling it to her breast protectively. "It's not me."

"Would you like to talk about it?" Solas asked kindly, moving closer.

Ellaria avoided him, shaking her head. "I—I don't know. The Dalish never speak of their personal troubles much. They can't afford to." She found herself clumsily stuttering over words, biting her lip to keep from saying too much and acting like a bloody fool.

"You refer to your people as they." Solas gazed at her ardently as she picked up the piece of bread, tossing it between her hands before taking a tentative bite. It was warm and flaky, the crust still crispy and hot as it nearly burned her fingertips. He nudged her shoulder, his feather-light touch making her freeze. "I see a sadness etched upon your heart, Herald."

His hand felt scorching against her own skin. "I cannot go back," she said slowly, ducking her head down to hide the shame she felt. "They wouldn't accept me—I'm no longer one of them."

It was more than that, yet she was afraid to speak her mind. The Dalish always welcomed more elves willing to convert to their customs and traditions to keep from inbreeding and to make sure the culture stayed alive. But they hated humans. Despised them. Word would eventually spread—if it hadn't already—of her failed mission and miraculous survival. They would hear reports of how the other races worshipped her and that she didn't take advantage of the situation to help her own kind. They wouldn't understand the Inquisition cause and think her selfish instead. Lazy. Unworthy to still be a Dalish even though she still carried their marks. In a way, it was blasphemous to their strict religions.

Maybe it was just that tribe. Perhaps others would welcome her more graciously and with open arms if she proved herself. But she doubted it, and the thought of rejection left her feeling numb. Ellaria finished off the bread, staring dully at the specks of crumbs that fell to the muddy soil.

"Is that what upsets you?"

"No," she confessed, looking up at him guiltily as his hand moved to her wrist. She still felt hesitation towards Solas and the aura he surrounded himself in, yet she trusted him the most. He was honest, she thought, and if oftentimes distant he could be very witty and astute. "A part of it, I suppose. I just—I don't want this. I don't want to save the world. People are always dying because of me. I cause them so much pain and I—they _hate_ me." She shrugged him off, breathless from her admission.

"I don't hate you," Solas stated. "And neither do those at Haven." For a moment he sounded colder, more reserved. His expression was unreadable as he blinked, hiding whatever he felt beyond his calm façade.

"No—" Ellaria violently scrambled upright, overturning the bowl of soup. "I'm a monster to them. Some even threw stones at my window last week. I scared them off, though. A-am I really so terrible?" She was almost afraid of the answer.

"No, Herald, you are far from that." Solas stood with her, hefting up his staff and holstering it above his shoulder blades so that it stuck out over his balding head. "How is your hand?" he inquired mildly, picking up the wooden bowl and thoroughly inspecting it with a distasteful expression.

"Crippling. It become unbearable when I'm near a Rift. It—it feels like—and I have these _nightmares_ that—they come nearly every night. . . I'm sorry," Ellaria apologised hastily, horror written across her face. "I shouldn't have said so much." She felt both light-headed and ill, her mind spinning from their brief, honest conversation. This was the first time she had admitted to feeling pain in front of others, though she already assumed Cassandra knew from sealing her first Tear.

Solas smiled, regarding her warmly as he offered her his arm. "I have nothing to forgive. I have nightmares myself, sometimes, though they are usually in the Fade."

Ellaria looped her elbow through his, leaning her weight against him as twilight descended over the valley. Bats flapped overhead with leathery wings and muffled squeaks, hunting for their supper. "We should head back."

Their short journey was mostly quiet, interrupted only by buzzing cicadas and the occasional whinnying horse. They were almost to Dennet's house when Solas paused, turning to face her. "Perhaps when this is all over you can retire here to the Hinterlands," he suggested, motioning at the growing crops and crude farmhouses. "You seem to enjoy the countryside."

She looked at him sadly, taking a step away to maintain distance. The gloom made her amethyst eyes seem murky, her pupils dark caverns that held indisposed secrets. "Solas." Ellaria shuddered from the damp, wrapping arms around her slim waist. She flashed him a crestfallen smile. "I—I think you know as well as I do that I'm not going to survive this. It will consume me, in the end."

With that she turned on her heels and walked away, her dainty feet creaking on the old weathered steps leading to the village as she passed a deserted windmill. Warm candlelight beckoned her forwards when she opened the stablemaster's door. The hearty fire from the brickwork hearth blasted her with a welcoming heat and flushed her freckled cheeks.

Her comrades greeted her once she stepped inside, Varric pounding the dining table in a drunken welcome as he took another swig of honeyed wine, clumsily wiping his mouth with the back of a large, sausage-like hand. Cassandra scowled fiercely the dwarf before going back to her game of checkers with Seanna. Dennet politely asked if she wanted to smoke, chuckling drily when she refused and commenting about halla.

Solas still stood outside as if time had frozen, pondering her words and staring up at the star-spattered sky pensively, his thoughts troubled and worrisome.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Updates may not be as frequent as other authors, as I tend to write slowly and usually take a break before editing. Also, I have a rather lovely piece of artwork for this story, but for some reason Image Manager won't let me upload. _

_Thank you everyone for following this :)_

* * *

Cullen was sifting through requisitions when Ellaria burst through the musty-smelling solar, looking as if she had just been electrified. There was a haunted look to her lavender eyes, an unease he couldn't quite place that disturbed him greatly. Josephine gasped, startled from her political reverie as she dropped a thick, dusty tome and smashed her tanned fingers on the oaken table.

The Herald flung herself at him, wrapping him into an awkward embrace before he could react. Cullen blinked, fighting back an embarrassed blush as he tried to regain his composure. The acrid stench of fresh smoke assaulted his nose and made him frown. She felt feverishly warm, pressing her trembling body against his larger one with a strength he hadn't known she possessed.

Then she was gone like an evening shadow, desperately clinging to Leliana instead. The spymaster coughed, nonplussed as Cullen silently shook his head in response. There was another scent lingering in the air, distinct, familiar, and rather alarming that put him on edge and set his nerves aflame.

Lyrium.

Cullen would know it anywhere, and it disconcerted him as he scowled, his veins thrumming with the intangible, fiery taste. He hadn't wanted to her visit the mages in Redcliffe, speaking as candidly as he dared and voicing his opinion about the unspoken dangers repeatedly.

Foolishly, the Herald hadn't listened. Not to him, anyways. What a stupid, silly girl. She went to the castle despite knowing that it was a blatant trap, and they had heard silence for almost a week in the Hinterlands. It unnerved him, sending him into a fitful, agitated mood that he despised. Josephine described it as a sullen tantrum, smiling behind her stacks of endless books and letters whenever he visited the solar to complain.

No one was smiling now.

The Herald finally stepped back, gazing at them with something akin to heartache as she cleared her throat. The noise sounded raw and hoarse like uncut wood, almost making Cullen wince with the unnatural sound. He finally noticed a shallow gash on her forehead when she began to fidget with her hair, and her porcelain skin was now ashen and smudged with dirt.

Josephine accosted her with a smothering, reprimanding glare. "What happened?" she demanded, a note of hesitancy creeping into her melodious voice at the half-crazed look in Ellaria's expression. The foreign ambassador was the eldest daughter belonging to an ancient, respectable trading house. Loose strands of hazelnut hair curled around her voluptuous figure, held up by jewelled pins as her bow-shaped mouth pulled into a worried frown.

 _Maker,_ Cullen thought sourly, but this had been a mistake. He shouldn't have been so lenient. Both sympathy and anger swelled in his breast for acting weakly and not speaking his thoughts louder. He shared the growing unease between the trio as he shifted against the war table in discomfort.

"We heard nothing." Leliana leaned on a bookshelf, her cornflower-blue eyes betraying her as pensive. Her trimmed hood was thrown back to reveal shining auburn locks that nestled around her freckled face in an appealing manner. She pursed her lips when there was no audible reply, the silence and tension becoming near palpable. If the former bard was nervous. . .

Josephine guided the Herald to a wing-backed chair, clucking like a disapproving mother as she shoved a tankard into Ellaria's shaking hands with a quiet rustle of silk. She ordered her to drink, waiting patiently with arms folded across her bosom and watching as the elf stared at them vacantly.

Slowly, she nodded. Cullen couldn't help but frown at her traumatised state, unknowingly glaring at her as she took a tentative sip out of the earthen mug. _This shouldn't have happened,_ he told himself angrily. The templar inside him was admonishing his mistakes, knowing he should have pressed harder for his brethren's support. Seeing her in pain only increased his agitation. It reminded him too much of failing his duty in Kirkwall, and the blank, terrified stares of the mages as Meredith hunted them down, laughing maniacally when blood spattered the marble columns.

 _We are Champions of the Just._

Ellaria coughed, shaking her head as a bitter laugh escaped her. "You wouldn't believe it," she muttered, giving a shaky recount of the events. She had to pause several times, reiterating her report as Leliana and Josephine pestered her with questions. Cullen remained mute, listening with bated breath and more than a little apprehension.

He ran a hand through his hair when she had finished speaking, quietly muttering a curse. What the Herald spoke of sounded impossible. Demonic, even. He desperately wanted to doubt her, but there was an unshakeable faith in her eyes that he couldn't discredit. It was a sight he was well-acquainted with, and one he refused to deny.

"I allied with the mages."

"What?" Cullen couldn't stop himself from asking. "Why?" he demanded, staring at her in complete and utter disbelief. He leaned against the table in earnest and knocked aside a few sharpened quills. This would only earn them more hatred and distrust of their growing cause. And apostates running freely without supervision?

 _Maker's Breath,_ he thought. A tightness formed around Cullen's scarred mouth, annoyance glittering in his golden-brown eyes. There was a tension in the air, something that came dangerously close to anger. "You should have conscripted them, Herald. Abominations will start to breed, w—"

Cassandra marched into the war room, then, a determined, ferocious look in her gaze. She looked at them expectantly, her armour dented and in disarray as a scorched, cloth-of-silver cape fluttered behind her in the stagnant breeze. While the woman was a level-headed warrior, she could be a spitfire if riled enough. "It is true," she announced firmly, her voice stern and brooking no argument.

"You were there," Cullen invoked scathingly. He gestured at Ellaria, his amber eyes both smouldering and wrothful. "Why didn't you intervene?" They should have known better. _He_ should have known better.

"You asked me to do this," Ellaria snapped, shoving Josephine out of the way. She stared at Cullen, hurt brimming in her paled and waxen expression. "We needed their trust, and this was the best way."

He was beyond infuriated with her. "No," he snapped, "it _wasn't_." Leliana touched his shoulder as he scattered a loose pile of scrolls and wooden markers, attempting to placate him as memories of Fereldan's Circle violently resurfaced. How could the Herald do this? It felt like betrayal, and it took all his reserves not to behave like a maddened heathen.

"Calm yourself," she chastised, speaking in a low timbre so that the others wouldn't hear. Leliana slowly loosened her grip as a warning and stepped back into the shadows where she was more comfortable.

Cassandra stiffened, giving a wry snort. "I did not agree with her decision, but I support it." She nodded briskly, fingering her shortsword out of habit. "What's done is done."

Unshed tears threatened Ellaria's countenance, grime coating her blonde eyelashes. "I had to travel through time, I had to—you were all there." She confronted her advisors, her lilting voice dripping with accusation. The Commander had never seen her like this, and it discomfited him greatly. "They tortured you, they—" her breath hitched in abrupt pain, a dark crimson flower quickly seeping through her tattered doublet. Blood, Cullen realised belatedly.

"You said you weren't injured!" Cassandra exclaimed hotly, her posture becoming defensive.

Ellaria's lips thinned into a line. She tried to rise from her seat, collapsing to the floor and groaning softly. "I lied," she stated, holding a tremulous hand to her ribs. "I just needed. . ."

"Maker's Breath," Cullen said. His anger quickly dissipated, replaced by shame at his lack of composure and unseemly burst of rage. Guilt flooded him as he averted his eyes. He hadn't meant to lose control, but the withdrawals. . .

No. He needed to stop the excuses. They only made things worse, and his lack of conviction made him feel spineless.

When Cassandra had first found him and offered a recruitment, he hadn't thought events would lead to this. Travelling across the seas from Kirkwall to Haven hampered things, putting him in a foul mood. Weather had been rough, to say the least, and he discovered that he shouldn't become a sailor. Ever.

After arriving, he did his best to train and command what motley groups of soldiers Leliana had managed to procure. Most of them were plain farmers and simple stablehands, used to ploughing fields and running messages. Their hands became scarred and calloused from holding actual blades, and blood watered the ground innumerable times from some fool acting carelessly. Cullen had finally gotten used to shouting his voice raw, and he scowled at them so frequently that they nicknamed him the Lion.

He didn't feel as threatening without his cloak fastened snugly around his pauldrons. It was a comfort to him, the weight and warmth both familiar and soothing. A young seamstress had commissioned it back in Redcliffe, eager to impress the Commander of the newly-fledged Inquisition. Cullen could still remember Cassandra's smirk at the woman's incessant flirting with him.

That didn't mean he hated his men. Far from it. But this was a war, and if you didn't pay attention in battle then you'd end up a corpse. Cullen had seen enough death, but, Maker help him, more were going to perish before order was finally restored, and many more would become haunted by horrible memories.

And now, here he was, forced to deal with Ellaria's hasty actions. It would lead to consequences, and ones he wasn't particularly looking forwards to seeing. He recalled seeing the Herald of Andraste for the first time, her young, nubile face concentrated and laced with pain as she sealed the closest Rift. He had been unimpressed despite her excitement, shouting at his troops though the haze and helping with the wounded. Then, she had only been a prisoner.

Now, she was deciding things that would affect them all. And he was afraid that she was making the wrong choices.

Cassandra kneeled, roughly tearing open Ellaria's shirt. The Herald gave no resistance, shivering to herself and mumbling incoherently about portals and dragons. She made a soft noise resembling a gasp as an ugly wound gaped from her side. Bloodied linens were clumsily wrapped around her milk-white breasts in a makeshift bandage.

Cullen hastily left the room. He did not wish to stay, certain that he was invading some level of privacy. Leliana saw him out, asking if he could fetch healers as he prowled through the chantry. He felt like a common criminal, nodding at the simple, urgent request as a blush reddened his face.

The Commander pushed open the carved wooden doors, stepping outside into the fresh, cool air as his senses flooded with relief. He sent a few gossiping sisters into the solar, pausing momentarily before heading for the apothecary. The short walk assisted him in thinking more clearly as bawdy songs trickled from the shabby tavern nearby. He could hear the Iron Bull roaring with laughter, entertaining a half-naked barmaid on his lap.

The Herald certainly kept strange companions. They were an odd mix of outcasts, spies, and thieves. A sharp twinge reminded him that someone else he once knew had kept a similar circle of friends. People who became immortalised, if not unlikely, heroes.

He climbed up some spiralling steps which led towards his destination, careful to avoid the newly-planted gardens. Endless rows of elfroot and dragonthorn saplings bloomed defiantly despite the approaching winter, and they were guarded almost zealously by Solas. The elven apostate was nothing if not methodical and precise, and Cullen thought the absence tonight from his normal haunts was strange.

He soon found out why.

Cullen didn't fail to notice the stranger nonchalantly slouching against the infirmary, eating an apple in such a way that he could only describe as scandalous. The raven-haired man licked his fingers pretentiously, watching him with a simmering, hungry interest.

"Adan isn't here," he said coolly, combing his mustachio with elegant, nut-brown fingers. He was dressed richly like a petty lordling, with a quartered tunic, leather moleskin breeches, and a sable tooled cloak that was as supple as sin itself.

Cullen's nostrils flared. _Mage,_ he thought, eyeing the gnarled staff with trepidation borne from years of rigorous training and discipline. Maker forgive him, but he couldn't help it. Some things. . . some habits were hard to correct. And this new predicament was only going to worsen things.

He could sense the irregular pulsing of mana from the apostate, although something was. . . off. The magic was being tampered in a dark, careless way, and it tugged at his senses like an irritating itch. His eyes narrowed a touch, and this time he felt no guilt. "Who says I'm going to see Adan?"

The mage scoffed, as if any other idea were positively absurd. "Don't be ridiculous," he preened smugly. "You certainly wouldn't come up here to speak with Solas. That swindling bastard tried to _educate_ me on the Fade." His rich, purring accent was difficult to place; it was an odd blend of several provinces that melded into a swaggering bravado of painted words.

Cocky. Hot-blooded. He was like a bold, swaggering youth with no experience. A person the soldiers would laugh and ridicule while deep in their cups. Cullen frowned, his exasperation thinly-veiled at the mage's cheeky insolence. "And you are?" he asked quietly. He couldn't help but feel suspicious at the offhanded manner that the mage spoke with.

But, Maker help him, he was in a foul mood and everything was turning sour.

The stranger gave a mocking half-bow, tossing his discarded apple core behind him. "Dorian Pavus," he introduced, flashing an innocent smile. "I saved your dearest Herald. It was rather exciting, although I don't think I could stomach another bout of time-travelling. It puts a terrible strain on me."

"She's not mine," Cullen defended, frowning when Dorian's beguiling grin became rakish. Just the very assumption made him flustered and irritable. The conversation was quickly becoming rather redundant and beyond improper, he decided. Ignoring the mage's presence, he quickly strode into the alchemist's shop with a self-righteous fervour he was loathe to express.

It was a quaint little place of curiosities. Potions, diagrams and ink-stained notes littered the crooked shelves as incense hung in the hazy air, burning in copper-coloured braziers. Shards of jagged glass, bones, and amber beads hung from the rafters on strings of twine, twinkling merrily whenever the wind brushed them with gentle caresses.

It was deserted.

"I told you." Dorian was in the doorway, seeming incredibly pleased with himself as he examined the smoke-filled apothecary's shop with a wrinkled nose. He moved towards a secluded alcove, posturing near a gaudy portrait of a smiling alchemist that looked suspiciously like a courtier.

"Where did he go?"

Dorian shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't ask." He looked at Cullen's bewildered gaze, unable to hide the smirk forming around his lips. "However, if you need someone of magical quality then I would be happy to assist."

Cullen glared at him, unmoving. He didn't trust the mage—far from it. Despite knowing hundreds of travellers and pilgrims visited Haven daily, this man was different, somehow. Even unlike other mages. He tried his damnedest to set aside the prejudices groomed into him since his youth, knowing them false and old-fashioned. But there was a dark taint to Dorian's grasp on the Veil, and he sensed it with each passing second.

Necromancy? _That would make him Tevinter,_ Cullen thought, shaking his head. Or a blood mage. Neither were preferable, and both seemed unavoidable as they usually went hand-in-hand. It was. . . it was wrong.

Dorian snorted, rolling his eyes with a scornful look. "Are you just going to stare at me?" he asked.

"The Herald is wounded," Cullen admitted begrudgingly, forcing himself to relax. He ignored the subtle bite of amused venom in the mage's tone, clearing his throat. Now was not the time to be hostile, much as he hated to admit it.

Immediate concern washed over the mage's handsome, graceful features. "Take me to her," he commanded crisply. "I will not lose her again," Dorian added, seeing Cullen's gaze harden with distaste.

Normally he would balk at being ordered about, yet the heated, almost possessive look in Dorian's eyes made him reconsider their situation. Whatever the mage was, he thought the Herald important. And, he remembered shortly, he had been with her at Redcliffe.

Cullen couldn't help but agree, despite their striking differences of opinion and countless arguments. Without her, Thedas would delve into madness and destruction, and things would become far, far worse. They needed her. Desperately. Even if she made bad choices.

Perhaps the apostate could help after all.

 **O-~O-~O**

Never-ending nightmares plagued her dreams, shadowed by a relentless, pounding fever.

Ellaria could not sleep. She tossed her suffocating blankets aside as she rose, a restless look settling on her face. She had thought the quiet would calm her, the soothing darkness of her chalet allowing her to unwind. Josephine had gifted the homely bungalow to her as an official way of instating her rank as Herald, but the wooden walls only seemed to ensnare her more. It smelled of venison and burnt bread instead of cool moss and tiger lilies. Linens and underclothes were neatly folded by her bed, and a half-eaten apple was perched precariously on a ceramic plate close to the hearth.

She slipped through the shadows, naked as she searched for something presentable to wear. Nudity was not scrutinised in the Dalish, and so there was no shame—especially in sacred ceremonies or love-making. Ellaria wondered if she would ever get to run through the lofty forests again, star-spattered foliage dappling her moonstone skin and lilac eyes.

But she was here now. Haven. And the town's confines were crushing her with its weight. It reminded her too much of Redcliffe. And red lyrium. And Venatori. _Creators_ , but everything reminded her of Redcliffe and what happened.

Enough was enough.

She was surprised to find Cullen beside her door, leaning against a nearby wattle-and-daub cottage. His gloved hands were wrapped around a shortsword thrust into the half-frozen ground, his leather boots sinking into a blushing, powdery snowdrift. The moonlight silvered his blond hair as he studied the stars with a troubled expression.

"Commander?" Ellaria slipped outside, inquisitiveness in her bell-like voice. "What are you doing?" She approached him warily, a nocturnal breeze stirring her rumpled robe. She had found it in an oaken armoire, discarded and moth-eaten. The cold reddened her freckled cheeks as she took a deep, slowing breath, waiting for him to respond.

The Commander was a well-built, well-respected man with unkempt hair and the remnants of stubble on his face, dressed tastefully with a fur cloak draped around steel-crafted pauldrons. He had forgone his decorative breastplate, instead dressed in cotton breeches and a quartered tunic belted at the waist. Mussed, unruly curls framed his jaw as snowflakes nestled in his velveteen collar.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he met her stare, silent and unwavering like a protective guardian. He had warm amber eyes flecked with gold. Eyes you could drown in if you stared hard enough, Ellaria thought. Butterflies stirred her stomach, and a telltale flush crept onto her face. Cullen didn't speak for a moment, lowering his gaze as he shifted. "You are my charge," he said softly, his voice almost lost in the stirring wind.

"I'm not a mage," Ellaria protested, both incredulous and confused. She sidled closer, hesitating when she noticed him stiffen. Creators, she prayed he still wasn't upset with her about Redcliffe. She had no idea if he was a man to hold grudges. "I. . ."

"You are the Herald. And I—wounded you." Cullen wouldn't meet her stare, fiddling with the onyx pommel of his blade like a fresh-blooded recruit. "I doubted your decision when you were given permission to act. Forgive me."

"But I'm not a mage." Ellaria shook her head. He sounded so uncertain of himself that it made her look at him twice, baffled at his dubious, nearly cowed manner that was so unlike him. "You don't have to do this," she replied, seeing him frown in disagreement. "There's nothing to forgive."

"It is a vigil," Cullen rectified. "I wronged you, and now I pay my penance." His scarred lips twisted into that of a wry smile. "Do you need to be a mage?" he queried, giving her a sideways glance that spoke volumes.

"No. . . I suppose not. But you're not a—"

"Templar?" Cullen guessed, finishing her sentence. A thoughtful frown darkened his golden eyes.

"Not anymore, no." She stood next to him, watching their shadows mingle like dancing serpents. Ellaria chanced a glance at his muscled figure and tapered waist, and just as quickly averted her eyes. Varric's nickname was aptly given.

The Commander inclined his head towards her. "I still have honour. And I intend to keep the codes." He sounded vaguely insulted.

"I never doubted your honour," she amended quickly, running a hand through her tangled, silvery hair, desperately thinking of something to say but finding nothing.

"You were questioning it." Cullen turned to look at her, regarding her coolly. "You should be asleep." He made the observation sound suspiciously like a command, his tone exuding a slight impatience.

Ellaria couldn't withhold the small, morose laugh bubbling in her throat. "I'm fine." He was worse than Keeper Istimaethoriel, honestly. And that woman was a nightmare when meddling with affairs that she didn't belong in.

"You were stabbed," the Commander replied pointedly, a half-smile beginning to form around the corners of his mouth despite himself. "And we are close to sealing the Breach. All your strength will be needed."

Ellaria shrugged and gave a rebellious smirk. She stared up at him with a glimmer in her large purple eyes. "I rarely sleep." When he raised his eyebrows she swore and blushed like a wanton strumpet as the implications of her words settled into an uncomfortable silence between them. She hadn't meant to sound so suggestive, and as a result she began to stammer out a flushed apology, grimacing like an idiot all the while.

Cullen stared at her with something that resembled amusment, a noise of breathy laughter finally leaving him and dissolving the tension. "You should rest," he said insistently, pretending to ignore her words with a flippant motion of his hand. It was like debating with a child, and both of them knew it. She certainly felt like one when he scolded her. Which was quite often, now that she thought about it. And worse, she couldn't correct him because she knew that he was right.

Well, mostly.

"What about you?" Ellaria demanded, glad of the diversion from her embarrassment. "You lead the Inquisition forces. Surely you must be cold. Or—something." She shook her head, smiling sweetly.

"Trivial matters," he retorted sharply, adding in a softer voice, "this is my duty, Herald."

Ellaria didn't know whether to be charmed or offended at his knightly, chivalrous behaviour. She refused to leave, however, and chose instead to drown in his large silhouette.

The Herald reluctantly accepted his cloak when he handed it to her, curtly asking her to walk with him in an unwavering voice that bore no emotion. She obeyed, grateful for the distraction as the leather warmed her chilled body. It smelled like him, she thought, the faint scents of musk, cloves, and sweat clinging to it.

Ellaria followed without another word, watching as Cullen sheathed his shortsword with a practical efficiency she found unnerving. Unlike chevaliers or noblemen, he found no need to prove himself with barbed insults or impressive footwork. Flourishes were unknown to him, so everything was—for lack of a better word—insensate. It clashed with his gentile manners when he proffered himself to ladies.

He reminded her of someone made from mismatched parts. Nothing was truly coherent, shifting from blatantly obvious and dismissive towards amicable and patient within seconds. But tonight he looked. . . hollow. Ragged. As if he was waiting for a love-struck stranger to piece him together and to understand. Truly, he was an enigma.

Shit. Dorian was right. She was a fickle, yearning bairn who thought of romance and blushed. Always wanting to describe things, Varric had called her a natural poet with a sheepish grin. A shame she had difficulty reading, he told her. It only seemed to cement the smallfolk's notions that she was a vagrant savage. The truth, though, was far more complex.

The Herald bit her lip until she tasted blood, listening to their boots crunch against the snowy ground. Cullen must have felt tired, for she felt his hands tremble when their arms brushed. "I should be apologising. Normally I don't. . . Redcliffe affected me. Deeply," Ellaria admitted, unable to look at him as she spoke. "I saw things there that horrified me. I was trapped in this distorted future for days, locked in a prison cell. You cannot imagine what I felt."

"No," he agreed. Cullen paused, searching for the proper words. "But I should be the one apologising. My anger was misplaced, and I was acting on former grievances. Now I am merely. . . cautious."

Ellaria softened, turning to face him. "They must have been great, then." She skirted the skeletal remains of Haven's former chantry, her breath misting the frigid, chilled air. She sifted through rubble and greyish-black char, ducking underneath an ironwood's bough and showering Cullen with broken icicles.

"I—yes. My attitude was unworthy, my lady, and I thought your decision unwise." He carefully sidestepped the assault, grimacing.

"My lady?" Ellaria felt chagrined. All these titles the Inquisiton forced upon her made her rather uncomfortable. She didn't feel like a Herald—or a lady, for that matter, though for the sake of the war she kept quiet on her opinions. The nobles' coin would feed and clothe the armies of a hero, not a modest hunter who couldn't read.

"I, uh." Cullen shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yes. My lady. You are the Herald."

It sounded so intimate coming from his mouth. "My name's Ellaria," she corrected gently, stopping the laugh that threatened to leave her. The moonlight struck her hair, leaves sticking to her lazy ringlets.

"Of course," he amended, his expression hastily morphing into something unreadable. "Forgive me." She regretted the foolish mistake almost immediately, continuing their stroll in silence with a wistful sigh.

They said nothing for what seemed hours. She smiled at a passing sentry, desiring something to break the tense silence as the holdfast remained still, as if frozen in time. The Commander wasn't a talkative man, and the quiet between them was far from companionable. It was heated, she thought, and strained.

"What do you think of the Inquisition?"

"What?" Ellaria paused when he drew closer, her brows furrowing as she attempted to discern some hidden meaning. She suddenly realised that he had gently steered her towards the tavern, and they were nearing her cottage again. Time had somehow slipped past her grasp, and she felt confused, frustration nagging at her for being so inattentive.

"The Inquisition," he elaborated with a smile as they passed beneath an overgrown watchtower, ivy choking its hold on the nitre-covered stone. "The growing armies, and how Haven is under Lady Cassandra's leadership."

"Josephine and Leliana lead the forces as much as her. And you."

Cullen chuckled, the sound taking her by surprise. It was like listening to honey poured over honey, and warm tendrils snaked through her breast at the sound. "Perhaps it would be better to say that we have no leader, then."

"You wouldn't care to argue?" Ellaria retorted archly, stumbling against him as her knees buckled. Cullen steadied her, concern lacing his expression as her Mark flashed to life, bathing them in hues of shocking emerald-green and painting their faces in a ghastly light.

"You haven't fully healed." He seemed mildly upset, shaking his head. Ellaria opened her mouth to argue, but winced instead when her ribs touched his chest. A stormy, distraught look settled between Cullen's brows as he muttered something indistinct, her slender hands splayed across his stomach.

The Herald righted herself, brushing off imaginary snow as she apologised. "I'm sorry."

"We should not have done this," Cullen said, referring to their walk. Reproach was in his voice as he watched her carefully. He thought her too weak, his gaze stern and disapproving like a scolding sergeant. It filled her with shame, as if she was a needy farmhand begging for his consent.

Ellaria closed her eyes, refusing to cringe from the spasms. "I don't regret it." She wondered if he was cold as they stopped before her door, handing his cloak back in a pool of soft-feeling fabric. He took it gently, their fingers briefly touching as he nodded. "If you stay out here you'll freeze."

He smiled bitterly, offering no verbal response. Cullen gazed up at the stars, his mouth parted slightly. "I come out here to think," he said softly. Pity blossomed in her heart at the unguarded expression he wore. "I see the moon, and take comfort in knowing my family sees the same."

"You have loved ones?" Ellaria asked, watching as he leaned against the doorframe. A thoughtful look crossed his face. "A lover?" she pressed earnestly, stepping closer with a wary stride.

Cullen gave a half-smile, curiosity lingering in his golden-brown eyes. He turned to look at her, casually leaning his side against the chalet as rubbed his jaw. "That's. . . an odd question."

"Well, you told me that you hadn't taken vows of celibacy." Ellaria grinned wolfishly at him when he coughed, flustered. "You don't have to answer," she added quickly, sensing the tension growing between them again.

"I—do you?" Cullen countered awkwardly. "Have—had someone?"

"Deflecting a question," she teased, "how diplomatic." Ellaria flashed him a brief smile. "Alright." She avoided his eyes, self-reproach and disgust furrowing her brow. "There was someone." Dread coiled in her stomach as she continued with the admission, her words halted. "It—he was. . . I wasn't. . . willing." Creators, why was she even telling him? "It wasn't the best."

"What?" Cullen gripped her arm with an ironlike grasp, frowning at her with a severe countenance. He looked taken aback, shock in his amicable eyes. Ellaria felt drawn to his gaze despite her better judgement. "Are you saying—"

"It's in the past," she stated nervously, her heart fluttering at how protective he acted. "That's why I'm telling you. It's fine. You're my commander." Shattered memories resurfaced, ones that loved to torment her. A child with alabaster skin and whitish-blonde pigtails frolicking through the forests, cornered and breathless. What a stupid, foolish mistake. "It's your turn now. I told you something. Nobody else knows. That's good, right? I mean, not good, no. That's bad. I don't know why I said that. It's fine, really."

"If someone r—"

"Don't," she begged, panic threatening to consume her as unshed tears glimmered in her eyes. "It's fine."

"It is _not_ fine," Cullen insisted gently, eventually letting the subject drop although he was clearly disgruntled about the matter. His eyes searched Ellaria thoroughly before he stepped back, removing his touch from hers. "No one will hurt you here. I can promise you that."

Ellaria crossed spindly, elegant arms over her breast, her body strangely aching from his absence. She prayed that her feelings wouldn't betray her, her face a stoic mask of neutrality. "I believe you, Commander," she breathed, dispelling the tangled emotions she felt. "But you haven't answered my question."

He gave a maladroit laugh, scoffing at the abrupt change in subject. And, to her surprise, he answered her. "There have been a few," he confessed openly, "yet none of that matters now. Only the Inquisition does." Cullen paused, glancing at her strangely. "Why?"

Ellaria smiled at him as she avoided his pointed gaze. "I was simply wondering how many hearts you were planning to break. All the pilgrims seem to talk about is you. Beyond my foul misdeeds, of course."

"Ah." He looked embarrassed, choking on his words. He reminded her less of a leader, and more of an eager, gauche boy who wore the stolen visage of a handsome commander. "The females, they, u—"

"Oh, not _just_ the females," she corrected coquettishly, raising an eyebrow. "Some of the males seemed to be engrossed by the legendary charmer as well." Ellaria took great gratification at how abashed and horrified he seemed, nudging his shoulder. "It's a joke." She forced a laugh, the sound dwindling in her throat at the passing glare he gave her.

"Oh." Cullen looked relieved, giving her a roguish half-grin. "You were starting to worry me, Herald."

Ellaria snorted at the mental image that produced, shuffling her feet as their conversation was bathed in a poignant silence once more. "I should go inside," she said softly, foolishly smiling to herself.

"You should."

"I do not need a vigil." Ellaria kissed him chastely on the cheek, watching as a look of shock flitted across his face. She did not wait for it to be replaced by disgust, unable to stomach his spurning as she slipped inside the cottage before Cullen could utter a word. She slowed her erratic heartbeat, listening from the shadows as he slowly closed the door with bated breath.

What had she just done?


	3. Chapter 3

Haven was celebrating.

Paper lanterns hung from trees and countless shingled roofs, giving warmth to the otherwise frigid holdfast. Drunken mages, fishermen, and soldiers jostled elbows as they danced around roaring bonfires, their robes and boiled leathers swishing against the ground as callous voices raised in celebratory song. Ellaria watched them, a quiet spectre amongst the noisy festivities.

A hundred different smells of roasting meat, bread, stews and sweets filled the already fragrant evening air. Both Dorian and Solas were casting parlour tricks to a ragtag group of motley children, their shrieks of enthralled, raucous laughter infectious. The Herald couldn't help but smile at their antics, silently moving in the background until she spotted the ambassador.

Josephine was daintily eating a scone underneath a blossoming sycamore, her thick, luscious hair intricately braided up into an elaborate bun. She was gaudily dressed as befit a courtier, garbed in a snow-cream gown with trimmed lace and puffed sleeves. She waved cheerily at Ellaria, an invitation in her large doe-brown eyes.

The Herald shook her head. She retreated to the courtyard where it was quiet, feeling strangely heavy. They all acted like a victory, and it was. . . wasn't it? Powdery snowdrifts shone like maidens in the moonlight, the flickering candles softly illuminating the redolent grounds. They were prayers for the departed, hopes for the morrow. No expense had been spared that night, as food was being carted out on silver platters usually reserved for offerings. Tonight, none would go hungry. Tonight, there were no prejudices. Tonight, people could sleep easily in their beds.

Except her. Nightmares haunted her dreams, both waking and otherwise. Alternate realities where Leliana was tortured, where Cullen betrayed her, where the Herald of Andraste failed and everyone died. She had seen her companions become tormented back in Redcliffe, either turning into monstrous beings or mere shadows of their former selves.

Ellaria swallowed. While her advisors were aware of what had happened, only Dorian knew the whole truth. The _real_ truth. She bade him to keep silent, fearful of the consequences should the others find out. A voice inside her head scolded her for being paranoid and deceitful to her superiors, but doubt still gnawed at her whenever possible and prevented her from speaking.

She couldn't even close her eyes without being haunted by the lucid images and it had almost been a week. The pungent stench of smoke still lingered in her nostrils, and she if thought hard enough she could feel Cullen behind her, deftly sliding a dagger into her ribs.

 _Tell me what you want, my lady. . ._

Ellaria whirled around in partial fear, taking a shaky, deep breath as she blinked. She was alone. She always would be. She. . .

The red lyrium. It made her. . . wrong. Dorian—being a mage, she assumed—had natural resistances to it, and so he remained unaffected during their brief time at Redcliffe Castle. But it corrupted her, crawling beneath her skin and making her feel withdrawals. Pain. Silent whispers would call out to her in beckoning, invading her senses as her eyes flashed crimson for the briefest of moments. She hadn't spoken to anyone about the issue, desperately praying that her friend remained silent as well. Ellaria wouldn't be able to stand their stares.

Besides, things were getting better. She hoped.

Much time had passed since recruiting the bloody mages and she still felt ill, unable to escape her dreams and visions. Nothing seemed to help, either. Maybe it was only stress, but she remained unconvinced.

At least she wasn't the only one unhappy. According to Varric, the Commander was polishing his weapons with a puppy-dog face, poring over letters and requisitions. He was preparing for the next battle, she knew. The Inquisition was far from over, though her role had been momentarily fulfilled. The Breach was sealed, and ecstasy was spreading over the village like delirium.

Ellaria briefly wondered what would become of her, tugging at the single glove which clothed her hand and covered the Mark from view. Solas had imbued the grey-coloured fabric with magic, assuring her that it would assuage her aches and spasms.

Perhaps she could slip away, though the prospect wasn't very ideal. Her clan wouldn't accept her, and the Chantry would still want her beheaded despite her best efforts. She would have nowhere to go. A vagabond.

She solemnly sat down on a granite bench, the silver-flecked stone cooling her hands and the backs of her thighs. Millions of stars spattered the velvety sky, the constellations innumerable and wondrous as the air chilled her lungs and stole her breath. Ellaria was unsurprised when Cassandra stepped forth from the darkness, a proud look on the noblewoman's face.

"You did it," the warrior remarked in her native accent, sitting across from the Herald after asking permission. She briefly touched the faded scar on her sun-kissed throat, smiling grimly before she folded her hands in a silent prayer. "Solas confirms the heavens are scarred but calm. The Breach is sealed." There was a note of finality in her rich voice as she looked at Ellaria warmly. "We've reports of lingering Rifts, and many questions remain." The Seeker gestured at the Herald's arm. "But make no mistake. This was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread, and the Inquisition prospers."

Ellaria smiled. Cassandra was a good woman, fiercely loyal almost to a fault. Her mahogany hair shone in the twilight as she shifted against the wind, the scent of exotic spices wafting from her figure. She was content. Happy. Her purpose would go unabated, dressed in decorative armour with a rippling cloak and satin hood.

"You know how many were involved," Ellaria said, staring at her feet resolutely. "Luck put me in the centre."

Cassandra frowned, wrinkling her nose. "A strange kind of luck," she observed drily. Her tone betrayed her as feeling slighted, as if the whole ordeal being accepted for anything beyond Andraste's mercy an insult. The Seeker was nothing if not firm in her beliefs. "I'm not sure if we need more or less."

She heaved a sigh, clambering to her feet and beginning to pace back and forth. Her boots clicked noisily on the courtyard. It was a habit Ellaria recognised, one the warrior did when she was thinking about an important matter. Cassandra turned to face her, a lobstered gauntlet clasped over the pommel of her sword. "You're right," she admitted. "This was a victory of alliance. One of the few in recent memory." She gestured up to the bruised-looking sky, her expression troubled. "With the Breach finally closed, that alliance will need new focus."

The clanging of bells startled the both of them, thrushes bursting from the surrounding thickets in alarm and squawking in protest. Ellaria scrambled to her feet, panicked yells greeting her pointed ears. She walked quickly into the yard, the surrounding mountains aglow with hundreds of thousands of burning lights. The breath left her mouth in a rush, stunned.

"What the—we must get to the gates!" Cassandra demanded, looming behind her ominously.

Ellaria started to sprint without further instruction, dashing heedlessly past Threnn and the baker's boy who had tear tracks running down his pudgy face, a stale loaf clutched in his tiny hands like it was a weapon. She collided violently against the Commander's chest while around turning a sharp corner, and would have toppled over had Cullen not steadied her with a firm grasp.

"What's going on?" she panted, her hand twitching eagerly. Ellaria didn't need to look to know that it was glowing. The tingling feeling preceding such events consumed her arm possessively in powerful throbs of anticipation.

They had not spoken much since that. . . night, nor her foolish impulse. And she certainly wasn't planning to without good reason. It wouldn't happen again, she decided. He knew too much. Even if her feelings held depth and were reciprocated, their lives weren't theirs to live. They had duty. Honour. And he certainly wouldn't sully his reputation with a knife-ear.

He was still amiable, of course, but avoided her whenever she tried to apologise, speaking hastily about obligations and walking off. Siding with the mages put distance between them, and despite that evening and his manners he was upset with her, she thought.

"Cullen?!" Cassandra shoved between them, accosting the Commander with a stare that would have made lesser men wet their breeches.

Cullen ran a hand through his hair, barking angrily at his soldiers to arm themselves. "One sentry reports a massive force, that bulk over there." He gestured at the cliffs vaguely, ignoring Cassandra's contemptuous snort.

"Under what banner?" Josephine asked, an alarmed look on her face as she joined them. Crumbs were still stuck in the folds of her corset, falling loose with every quickened step. "Armies need a leader."

"None." The Commander replied. "There's none."

"None?" Cassandra's lip curled in disdain. "How is that possible?" she asked hotly.

Cullen frowned, opening his mouth to reply with a retort. He was cut off by an urgent pounding on the weathered gates, a raspy voice yelling at them from the other side. "I can't come in unless you open!" They sounded pleading, desperate.

Ellaria slipped past them and their brewing argument, starting hastily down the steps towards the giant doors. "Open them," she ordered to a tired-looking scout.

The man obeyed, nonplussed as he passed on the command. Ellaria ignored her name being called, staring at the gates with a grim look painting her visage. They could bicker all they wanted. She knew what was coming, and dread coiled in her stomach at the thought.

Creators, but she prayed that she was wrong.

The gates groaned in complaint, creaking open slowly. Frightened smallfolk flooded through the entrance, a young boy following them as he carefully stepped over a fresh corpse. A queer metal hat was perched on tufts of his blond hair, his eyes colourless and worried.

"He's come!" The stranger shouted fervently, shoving through the forces to reach Ellaria. He clasped her hand, drawing her out into the training yards. "I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you." Blood spattered his pale complexion and sunken-in cheekbones, his filthy clothing soaked with a grimy mixture of water and sweat. "You. . . probably already know." His eyes widened as if in shock, his mouth suddenly agape.

"What is this?" Cullen asked sharply, glaring at the stranger. The boy dropped his clammy grip on Ellaria's hand, making a motion of peace. The Commander's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What's going on?"

"The Templars are coming to kill you," the boy stated tonelessly. He gave a pointed look at Ellaria, his mouth twisting into a frown.

Cullen swore. "Templars?" he asked, incredulous. His honey-brown eyes turned brooding and dark, hostility in his smouldering gaze. He jabbed a hand at the mountains in anger. "Is this the Order's response to our alliance with the mages? Attacking blindly?" His suave voice became dangerous, a biting edge to it. "If your word is true, then the Templars easily outnumber us tenfold."

Ellaria felt guilt well up inside her at his blunt words. She had chosen the mages against his advice, seeking them out of her own accord and pity. Now it looked like they were on the losing side. Again. _Because of me._

The boy made an odd half-bow, stepping nimbly to the side. "The Red Templars went to the Elder One," he insisted stubbornly. "You know him?" He lightly touched Ellaria's chest in an intimate gesture, ignoring the Commander's furthering scowl. "He knows you. You took his mages." The stranger gave a lopsided grin. "He's very angry that you took his mages."

Ellaria took a deep breath, forcing her hands to unclench as a slight catch betrayed her voice. "Commander?" she inquired coolly, a war horn shaking the air with its brassy proclamation. "Can you give me a plan?"

Cullen look at her, worry creasing his brow. "Haven is no fortress," he admitted, uneasiness marring his handsome face. "If we are to withstand this monster we must control the battle." He glanced at her appraisingly, his expression quickly morphing into something unreadable. "Go. Help them. Start avalanches down the mountains with our catapults. Bury every last one of them."

The Herald nodded, her face dour. "I'll go alone," she announced, her face tightening.

"No," he said firmly, shaking his head. His voice brooked no argument. "Take Cassandra and Varric." Cullen turned to accost the stranger as Ellaria retrieved her weapons, running out past the smithy. The stables were already aflame; horses and mules alike were screaming and kicking at their stalls as the whites of their eyes flashed with fear. Refugees were everywhere, fleeing in circles and shouting madly in a trampling stampede.

They weren't prepared for this.

The first catapult was overrun with templar knights. The lightly-armoured Inquisition soldiers were long since dead, their sightless eyes gazing up at the torn sky. Ellaria nocked an arrow to her longbow, shooting a man square in the throat. He toppled over in a lifeless heap, blood spurting out of his nose. The feeling of victory was quickly subdued when another took his place, a sere burgundy glowing in his veins and giving his face an unnatural glow.

Creators.

"Red lyrium!" Varric tossed a grenade consisting of pitch and wildfire, taking cover behind a barrel of rotten fish for protection and giving an ugly grimace. "It's changed them!"

"By the Maker," Cassandra said angrily, a fresh cut on her temple. The woman was in a self-righteous fury. She swung her shortsword this way and that, ducking and weaving with an agility most envied. Abruptly, the warrior slammed her shield into an archer, snapping his spine in half as she started to recite the Chant of Light.

 _Lyrium_. Ellaria stilled, the unheard song singing to her sweetly. Time seemed to slow, and it took all her strength to focus. Sweat dripped down her forehead. The breath left her mouth in a rush when a behemoth stomped into view a hundred yards away, crushing two farmers into a fine pulp of blood and viscera and spraying the air with a fine red mist.

It was at least ten yards tall, shards of jagged lyrium encasing the former templar's skeletal limbs like a living, breathing nightmare. It roared to the heavens, a formidable shadow forming next to it. "Varric!" Ellaria shouted hoarsely, breaking from her trance. "Can you start the catapult?"

The dwarf grunted in response, loading his crossbow. "Can you keep them off my back?"

Ellaria made a noise of agreement, grabbing an enemy's arrow and throwing into the eye of a banshee like a knife. Everything escaped her as she mindlessly fought, moving to the second catapult and then the third. She leapt swiftly over pallets of flaming wood and sidestepped chunks of falling debris. Her bow was gone—lost somewhere amidst the chaos so that she forced to rely upon her twin daggers. Then the lyrium grotesquerie from earlier attacked them, summoning ghouls and a fright of beasts.

Varric had retreated for the church, leaving only her and Cassandra. _There's no end to them,_ Ellaria thought desperately, falling to the ground when a earth-shattering wail pierced the sky. Alarm surged through her when she caught the sight of tattered wings.

"Andraste!" Cassandra scrambled away from a smouldering pile of rubble. "It's a dragon. They have a _dragon_." As if in agreement, the wyrm dove overhead, smashing its spiked tail into a cluster of trees and screaming fire.

Ellaria's eyes widened. "Fenedhis." It was like the one she dreamt of in dreams. The one who commandeered her sleepless nights with unsurpassed terror. It was the same, she was certain. And it terrified her.

"Herald!" Cassandra gripped her arm tightly. "We've secured the last catapult. We must set it off." The fighting seemed to lull for the moment as Ellaria stared back at her dazedly, flames reflecting her amethyst eyes. Frustrated, she shook the elf vigorously like a twig. "Listen to me!" she snapped. "We can fix it if—"

"No time," Ellaria mumbled weakly. "It makes no difference." A horn sounded out, the noise coiling up into the sulphurous air as clouds swallowed the disturbance. The heat flushed her cheeks as she coughed. "We need to report back."

Cassandra made a noise of both disgust and anger, nodding curtly after a long pause. The woman understood, but she hated the decision. Ellaria didn't care. There just simply wasn't enough time to repair the final catapult, and if they didn't leave now they would become overwhelmed. There was no time to bicker and argue.

They took off for the gates, and relief surged through Ellaria when she saw that the Commander was waiting for them on the steps. Cassandra dashed ahead in an adrenaline-fuelled sprint, the Herald mere feet behind her when something latched onto her boot. She yelped, crashing to the ground and kicking uncontrollably as a lyrium-crazed templar slashed at her, snarling in hatred.

A shortsword suddenly decapitated its hand. Cullen grabbed her roughly by the scruff of her jacket and flung her inside the smoking ruins of Haven. He closed the gates hurriedly, commanding everyone to fall back into the chapel.

Ellaria blinked, her head ringing in a high-pitched tone. The copper taste of blood filled her mouth as she slowly dragged herself upright, following the flood of refugees. The Commander pulled her aside, soot and ash smudging his face and becoming entangled in his golden hair. "There are still some smallfolk trapped," he explained tersely. "That dragon—whatever reprieve you gave us is gone."

Ellaria nodded, shaking her head to dispel the wooziness she felt. "I can help," she stated shakily, leaning against him as someone screamed.

His ironlike grasp tightened on her hand, fingers interlacing with her own until he held her in a bruising grip. "No. Lead them to the church. If I'm not there in ten minutes, lock the doors. Don't open them," he added shortly, dismissing her with a sharp nod.

Her violet eyes softened. She left to do his bidding, scooping a red-faced toddler into her arms. Ellaria drowned out the feeble cries, pulling open the church's doors. Varric rushed out to meet her, guiding the others inside. There was a tear in his ruffled shirt and he bore a bloodied lip, but otherwise he looked fine. The sight was greatly comforting, and she had to hold back the sudden urge to cry.

"Herald." He tugged at her elbow. "What's going on?" he asked urgently, lowering his voice.

"The Commander is doing something out there—helping smallfolk. If he's not here in ten minutes' time we close the doors. Permanently." Ellaria frowned, blinking hurriedly. "His own orders."

Varric chuckled humourlessly. How he even managed to do so was a mystery considering their predicament. He gently took the child clinging to her breast, sauntering away with the stolid, peculiar gait dwarves were known for. His caramel-coloured hair shone in the candlelight like tongues of flame, bouncing back and forth as he distracted the bairn.

Pained moans, cries of the bereft, and sobs assaulted her sensitive ears as she walked amongst the fluted marble pillars that held the chapel's ceiling aloft. A mob of children were clinging to a frustrated Dorian in a secluded alcove, demanding where their parents were and becoming angry when he provided no feasible answers.

Ellaria tugged at her ratted hair, flakes of dark-red blood fluttering to the ground. She forced herself to breathe, the occasional rumbles and screams reminding her where she was. The rafters would shake, untold layers of dust drifting down to cake everything in a grimy surface.

The chantry was a darkened labyrinth. The building felt morbidly warm to her, and the grand, austere architecture stuck out amidst the daub-and-wattle buildings surrounding it like a sore thumb. Threadbare rugs and stale rushes padded the endless, snaking corridors. Burnished sconces hung from the dingy nitre-covered walls, flickering weakly as erected statues of Andraste revealed themselves when she passed.

Torchlight streamed through the windows, bathing the pulpit and latticed cloisters in a frenzied rainbow. Smoke-stained rafters made everything echo, turning sounds into a melding cacophony of whispers and pleads.

The air smelled of earthen spices and peat moss, chanters repeating their prayers as they tended to the wounded and sickly. The Chant burned her thoughts, inescapable as she stumbled into an abandoned storage room filled with musty water skeins and neglected candlesticks.

 _Creators preserve me._ She knocked over a discarded picture of Kirkwall, the rotted frame crumbling beneath her fingertips. The painting looked expensive despite its current state, once vibrant colours now faded and bleeding into the torn and filthy canvas.

Muffled yelling startled her. She followed the noise, coughing at the cloying incense used for vespers. Consolation flooded her when she caught sight of the solar, replaced by confusion when the noises grew louder.

"This man was found. I found him. He's dying." Ellaria spun on her heels, surprise marking her dirtied features as she saw the young stranger with Chancellor Roderick. The boy was washing the older man's face with something akin to tenderness, his cracked lips pursed in concentration. "He tried to stop a templar. The blade went deep."

"Chancellor." She stared at Roderick in shock. He looked terrible, his skin both papery and translucent. Enlarged bluish-purple veins strained at his neck as blood dribbled over his spotted mouth. There was a wild, feral look in his normally determined visage. It was the look of a dying person. Lost. Dazed. Hurt. Whatever remained of his proud character was gone, diminished with the fighting.

Ellaria scowled. "Who are you? You came to war—"

"A friend," the boy replied stoutly. He smiled grimly, his voice wispy and strange-sounding. Why hadn't she noticed it before? Sores decorated his mouth, as if eating provoked a reaction. "My name is Cole."

"You. . ." Chancellor Roderick coughed up blood, fumbling at his side in pain. A red blossom spread throughout his embroidered clothing and stained his white robes. "A charming boy. . ."

Ellaria heard Cullen shouting, promptly followed by loud banging. Solas opened the doors hastily, ushering the last survivors inside with consoling words. The Commander marched through wearily, supporting a half-conscious Seggritt. He roughly deposited the man close to Vivienne, the woman sniffing in distaste at the smell wafting up to her nostrils. Even in peril the enchantress seemed nonchalant, a sleeved arm draped elegantly over her cushioned chair.

"Commander," Vivienne greeted sourly, gripping her staff tightly as she frowned. "My dress is ruined."

His reply was brusque, "Congratulations." He stormed past, stopping abruptly before Ellaria and drawing her attention. "All exits are blocked, and demons are swarming all over the place. We won't hold long here." Cullen made a noise resembling a sigh, a bitter smile resting on his scarred lips. "Better we die in freedom."

"Or not." Leliana strode from the shadows, her hair singed and disorderly. She was dressed in a hooded blue robe with golden scrollwork embroidered on her sleeves, chainmail placed over it to serve for extra protection. "This cannot be the only way," she said. Poorly masked anger was in her melodious voice, bouncing around the stone walls.

"It is," Cullen insisted. "We don't have enough forces to fend them off. At best, they'll lay siege within the hour. _If_ that beast doesn't turn us into ash."

"We should inform the people," Josephine added worriedly, smoothing out her gown to conceal her displeasure as she added to the ongoing conversation. "Wouldn't you want to know the hour of your death?"

"No," Ellaria admitted, fidgeting when they all turned to look at her. "It'll cause a panic." The people would try to leave, making things inevitably worse. She felt pleased when they agreed, Josephine muttering in disgruntlement about advice and diplomacy.

"I've seen an Archdemon." Cole spoke up, nodding sagely. "I was in the Fade. But it looked like that. A dragon."

"I don't care what it looks like," Cullen snapped, agitated. "It's cut a clear path for that army despite our best efforts. It will kill everyone in Haven."

Cole's eyes widened. "The Elder One doesn't care about the village," he informed them sternly, "he only wants the Herald. Bleeding, angry clouds. Determined. Slaughters all he can to reach you. Ellaria. The glow that surrounds you, marks the air."

Ellaria froze stiffly. "What?" she asked, disquieted. "What are you talking about?"

Cole ignored her nettled look, the chantry's endless silhouettes making his hooded eyes seem like welling pits. "I came to help. To warn. Too late." He shrugged his shoulders in despair. "Always too late. What will happen?"

How could she have let this unfold? Ellaria was aware of the desperate, accusing stares from the injured and helpless. She closed her eyes, a sense of calm washing over her. "If it will save these people, then he can have me," she said quietly.

"It won't," Cole argued, distraught. "He wants to murder you. No one else matters, but he'll crush them, kill them anyways." He paused, shaking his head with a boyish enthusiasm. "I don't like him."

"You don't like—" The Commander made a noise of annoyance, fixing his attention on Ellaria. "Herald," he hesitated, "there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that could slow them are the avalanches were originally planned. I. . . suppose we could turn the remaining trebuchets and catapults to cause one last slide."

Leliana threw back her hood, her ice-blue eyes chips of stone. "We're overrun," she observed coolly. "To hit the enemy Haven must be buried. It would defeat the purpose."

Cullen nodded, his face solemn. "We'll die. But we can decide how, like I said before. Many don't get that choice."

Ellaria couldn't help but stare at him. He wasn't afraid, she realised. Did he welcome death? It was strange how he was regarding everything, where moments before he had been the complete opposite. She bit her tongue, wanting to argue but unable to think of anything worthwhile. It was a noble point he made, but one she didn't necessarily agree with.

Cole was studying the floor intently, his brows furrowed in concentration. "Yes," he said loudly to no one in particular. "That." He smiled, grinning up at them excitedly with hope in his eyes. He nudged Cullen's foot, drawing his attention. "Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to say it before he dies."

Roderick made a feeble sound of agreement, slowly nodding his head as if he was tired. "There is a path, y-you wouldn't know it unless you made the summer pilgrimage as I have." He coughed, trembling in a violent fit. Blood dribbled out of his mouth in an undignified manner as he shook despite the overheated atmosphere. The chancellor weakly thanked Cole as the boy diligently mopped it up with a rag, draping a tattered blanket around his bony shoulders. "The people can escape," he continued with renewed effort. "She must have shown me—Andraste must have shown me so I could. . . tell you. . ."

"What are you on about, Chancellor?" Josephine asked, wringing her hands as she pursed her dainty, bow-shaped lips. She demanded an explanation, wanting answers for the questions undoubtedly burning in all their minds.

Roderick shook his head, chuckling. "It was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start it. Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers. . ." He looked uncertain. "I don't know, Herald," he confessed, addressing Ellaria with a filmy gaze. "If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident. You could be more."

Her heart swelled with pride. Roderick had never called her Herald before. It was always knife-ear or something worse, as if her company was a horrible thing to endure. Not now. Not in the face of death. Ellaria realised that he wasn't a bad man, but simply a misguided one. His intentions had been muddied, biased by his harsh religion. He was setting that aside for her, giving her a chance to prove herself.

She could try.

"Commander," she asked softly. "Will it work?" So much depended on his response, that her elated heartbeat nearly drowned out his words.

Cullen's mouth twitched into the semblance of a frown, displeasure in his eyes as he caught her suggestion. "Possibly," he allowed, "if Chancellor Roderick shows us the path. But what of your own escape?"

Ellaria couldn't look at him. She felt relief, but shame as well. She shook her head, quelling the building emotions inside her that threatened to choke her stability. The Elder One wanted her, and so he would have her heart and soul. She would see him face-to-face. "No," she said quietly, voice a murmur.

"I. . ." Cullen sighed. "Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way. . ." There was a forced cheeriness to his tone, but his eyes spoke otherwise. He was unhappy with her decision, though he knew it was the right one. Ellaria glanced at him, promising him silently, swearing him to keep them safe.

"Had to be me," she joked, the weak jest dwindling into a void of uncomfortable silence. "Someone else might have gotten it wrong."

The Commander dipped his head in understanding. "Inquisition!" he ordered, unsheathing his shortsword. "Follow Chancellor Roderick through the chantry. Move!"

A hand touched her shoulder. She looked down at Roderick, hiding her shock that he would lower himself to touch an elf. "Herald. . ." His red-rimmed, watery eyes were shining with a pleading devotion. "If you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this. . . I pray for you." Ellaria stared after him as Cole gently led Roderick away in a slowed shuffle, lending his weight as support.

Cullen cleared his throat, his face stoic and impregnable. "You'll have to load the trebuchets," he said, firmly ushering a stumbling woman towards an awaiting soldier. "Keep the Elder One's attention until we're above the treeline—I'll send a signal." He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something terrible. "If we are to have a chance—if you are to have a chance. . ." His golden-brown eyes silently beseeched her. "Let that thing hear you."


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:** Some adult themes are briefly mentioned in this chapter as a warning. Thank you everyone for the support, it means a lot. :)_

* * *

Never had she felt so cold.

Freezing rain and snow battered her ceaselessly in an endless blizzard, prickling and stabbing her shivering body without mercy until she felt raw. Hoarse, uneven breaths left her lungs as she stumbled against a boulder half-hidden in a snowdrift, a pained cry bursting from her swollen lips.

 _Mortals beg for truth they cannot have. It is beyond what you are. Pretender._

A face haunted her mind, black, soulless eyes latching onto hers as the leathery remains of a mouth curled back into a wolfish snarl. Ellaria desperately willed the image to go away with what remained of her strength, tremors of fear wracking her. She was terrified, hastily blinking back unshed tears as she trudged onwards, searching for people that wouldn't be there, hoping for someone to rescue her.

No one came. They wouldn't, she slowly realised, leaning against an ironwood. Not for a knife-ear. The remnants of Haven had fled from the destruction, thinking that she had self-sacrificed herself to save them. And she had. Ellaria couldn't even begin to describe the emotions she felt at creating the avalanches, watching as what she had slowly become familiar with hastily destroyed in blood and fire.

Then everything was replaced by a numb shock when a monster stepped forth from the belching flames, as if marching from the hells themselves. She hadn't thought him real, at first, simply a figment—an illusion of some sort of her broken imagination.

Her shattered ankle attested that the creature wasn't. Fresh scars littered her arms as the Mark faintly pulsed with ribbons of greenish-blue life, making her hands tingle unpleasantly. Gashes and mottled bruises covered her face and bloodied lip, and her ribs were shattered from falling a heavy distance. How fragile she was, the supposed Herald of Andraste. How easily Corphyeus had shook her back and forth, had strangled and forced her to submit and kneel in a genuflect pose. Had any of the smallfolk seen her then, screaming brokenly as the Elder One tried to absorb her power, they would have lost all hope they garnered, little as it was.

Cullen had seen. It was only for the briefest of seconds as he nocked an arrow to his longbow, sending forth a flaming shaft into the night sky. It was the signal, she knew, and he stood on a honeycombed ridge overlooking the ruined town to make sure that she saw it. Ellaria had gazed into his pitying eyes as Corypheus ranted about her soul, finally summoning the courage to spit in the demon's face and unleash the final trebuchet.

The rest was chaos. A blackened, hazy memory filled with hurt and suffering. _Creators,_ but the pain wouldn't stop. Grey-green sentinels and ironwoods surrounded her lone figure, creaking and moaning as the wind screamed, howling out of nowhere and rattling the trees with hoarse whispers. The forest rustled about her secretively as she walked, undergrowth snagging onto her tattered breeches.

Ellaria had no idea if she was going in the right direction, the brewing storm covering all tracks. The tempest swallowed her own halted footsteps, legs soaked and trembling as her leather boots filled up with sharp pebbles. She was even uncertain _why_ she kept going. There was no point, she told herself. She would eventually succumb to cold, and if not the weather then the wolves who were following her would gladly feast on her corpse, tearing into her belly with an ominous vigour. The animals bayed up to the star-spattered heavens in anticipation. Their panting shadows slinked through the brambles with practised stealth, following her doggedly as she slowed. She could hear the hunger in their cries, and briefly wondered whether Fen'Harel was watching over them, granting them a swift meal in mercy.

The Dread Wolf.

She laughed bitterly, her foot hitting a broken wheel. Its spokes jabbed her knee, drawing forth a muffled sob. Ellaria stared at it for a moment with dulled, glassy eyes, finally realising what it meant after what seemed hours. She bent down stiffly with a wince, tugging at the buried children's toy lying next to it. _A doll,_ she thought, with tawdry ropes serving for mouldy strands of hair. The Herald clutched it to her quivering breast, the faint smell of elfroot tickling her nose.

Her feet heedlessly scattered cold ashes into the blowing gusts as she ambled, her steps becoming more faltered and sluggish as time passed. Ellaria peered into the distance with squinted eyes, praying to see the outlines of campfires shimmering in a tantalising dance, beckoning her with false promises of warmth and safety.

The shadows suddenly seemed much more threatening now as she looked this way and that, sniffling to herself. Ellaria saw shapes come and go, but whether these were real or mere fanciful visions, she couldn't say.

That was when the hallucinations began, scorching her mind with a vivid brightness and becoming inescapable.

A young girl rushed past, babbling incoherently in a foreign tongue. Her hair was braided into pigtails, a look of fear plastered on her innocent face. She was clad in a tunic sewn from leaves, her freckled skin frightfully pale. Ellaria cried out, trying to warn the child of the man standing behind her with a lewd, feral look in his eyes.

 _You have such pretty pink lips. I'm going to make you a whore, knife-ear. I'm going to make you scream and beg._

A sob shook her throat as she relived the pain and horror. Her thighs ached with a terrible shame, blood slipping down to pool at her legs in a pronouncement of her guilt. She reached a shaking hand out to the wavering mirage with pleading, fragmented words, only to have it disappear and be replaced by the Commander. He walked backwards, easily keeping stride with her as he folded gloved hands behind his back in a displeased gesture, his visage shimmering and translucent. He stared at her sternly with a frown upon his lips.

Twelve years.

She slowly raised an arm, her muscles screaming in protest at the slight movement. Above, the stars glittered coldly, radiating a mocking warmth that once seemed so kind. So beckoning. Now they were had twisted, twinkling with an unbridled hatred at her weakness. They had often guided her as a child, giving solace where she sought comfort. The constellations became her friends, speaking wondrous tales as she wept, hiding in the sweeping, lonely forests. But not now.

No one had wanted to play with the despoiled elven girl. They thought her cursed, staring and muttering as rumours spread of Fen'harel molesting her, marking Ellaria with his withering touch. She felt branded. Alone. Even her parents abandoned her, leaving her an orphan. If Deshanna had not showed her a tender, motherly kindness, she would have been cast out from the clan into the woods to be banished.

"I'm sorry," she begged, falling to her knees heavily with a thud. Ellaria looked at her feet, remorse creeping down her spine when she stuttered. _I failed,_ she thought, burying hands in her face to hide her shame. "Forgive. . ."

"Let them hear you," Cullen mocked, fiddling with his hair and cruelly laughing as grief consumed her. "You're the Herald. And I know everything. A murderer. A thief. Another prisoner, only worthy to be executed like all elves. Like all mages." His voice took on a sinister, dark tone. "Like maleficar. Did you really think that _you_ were the victim? That anybody cared?"

 _You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more._

"No!" Ellaria gasped for breath, blinking back the snowflakes clinging to her eyelashes. This was too much, it was. . .

 _You are no Dalish,_ the trees exclaimed, the breath catching her throat as frostbite tinged her fingertips. The wind assaulted her anew, needling her with a deluge of frozen rain and hail even as icicles began to form on her glistening nose and drawn face.

Twelve years.

She wanted to go home. But there was no home, Ellaria realised. She was alone. Always.

Nobody wanted her.

Warmth pricked her lilac eyes as homesickness washed over her in violent, unyielding waves. She wouldn't see the forests again. She wouldn't be free. Memories resurfaced of hunting in the forests and rolling meadows, stalking rams and majestic halla. Worshipping Andruil for providing food as she skinned the animals' hides with deft fingers. She was always silent, wriggling through the grass or leaping from tree to tree on slender branches, a horn raised to her lips as she awaited the signal. Like ripples on a pond.

She was always alone.

 _I am to die, then._

The snow was warm. It felt like a comforting blanket, embracing her with a feather-light touch. Her movements became halted and drowsy as if she was a drunken, content beggar. A strange heat enveloped her as she lifted her gaze to the purplish-grey mountains, a silent prayer in her throat. She had no more strength. It ended here, becoming a feast for wolves. Their starving bellies would be sated by the taste of her flesh.

But the smallfolk from Haven were safe. She'd. . . saved them. That was what mattered. Those weren't really fires in the distance, Ellaria told herself. It was only another illusion. Another torment. Creators, was she tired. So, so . . . tired. She vaguely tasted the coppery tang of blood pooling in her mouth as she swayed back and forth in the blustering gales.

The Herald closed her eyes, lying down in the snow and hard-packed earth. It welcomed her eagerly, a half-smile slowly curling onto her shivering lips. Ellaria would only sleep for a few minutes. . .

"There she is!"

A torch blinded Ellaria as she wearily opened her violet eyes, gazing up into the hardened face of Cassandra with a blank mien. A cloak was draped around her shoulders, someone carefully picking her up. She made a noise of pain, a cold metal breastplate sharply pressing into her side. She felt like her ribs were being crushed to smithereens, confusion making the world spin dizzily like she was being thrown from a halla.

It was delirium. It had to be. Her eyes fluttered shut, a high-pitched singing in her ears as she buried her face in the cloak. "I'm sorry. . ." She muttered. "I–I'm so, so sorry." She felf drained, her limbs paralysed and leaving her unable to move. "Please."

A hand stroked her forehead almost fondly. "You're alright," a voice said soothingly, "You're safe, just hold on." A stab of fear struck her when she heard Cullen, struggling uselessly in his arms to no avail and forcing a scream. He wanted to kill her, he wanted to—

Cassandra hissed at the amount of blood, her face paling drastically. "By the Maker," she exclaimed doubtfully, her blackish-brown eyes betraying the slight catch in her tone, "her wounds. . ."

"I'm so sorry," Ellaria sobbed. "I'm goi-going to die." He was going to murder her. He hated her. "S-stop it. I want to go home—"

"No," Cullen replied firmly, the harsh winds dishevelling his hair as he looked at her with a worried expression, his brow furrowing. "You're not." He glanced at Cassandra briefly, his breath coming out in wisps of warm air that caressed her cheeks. "We need to get her to the healers quickly."

The warrior nodded silently in agreement, walking forwards with a determined look on her battered face. Ellaria refused to open her eyes when Cassandra left, her panicked heartbeat so loud she feared that the Commander would hear it.

He still despised her. . . didn't he? Dread muffled her whimpers as she feebly dug her fingers into the cloak, inhaling sharply. Ellaria was unable to tell the truth, her fleeting grasp on consciousness slowly fading with every step. His voice lowered to a soft-spoken murmur, unintelligible like a chortling brook and haunting her further with its gentleness.

"Stay with me. Herald? We're nearing the camp." Cullen shook her, asking incessantly that she keep her eyes open. "Ellaria," he said forcefully, "don't fall asleep. Do you hear me? Stay _awake_."

It was so. . . hard. Had he said her name? _No,_ she thought. She was dead already. He would never do something so informal—like holding her hand. He was a knight. An ex-templar. He didn't care about her. The Herald shuddered, becoming limp in his arms as a light-headed euphoria clung to her with a sweet sickness. Ellaria could barely hear the restrained panic creeping into his voice as he cradled her to his chest.

He was trying to make her speak. It was difficult enough just. . . existing. How could he be so cruel? No, he didn't really care. She felt as if she couldn't breathe, her eyes red-rimmed and watering from the gusts. She clawed at his armour, mumbling incoherently.

It was too difficult to think, her heartbeat slowing to a sombre drudge as her mind turned clouded and warped. Heat blasted her face until Ellaria felt that she was suffocating with its warming embrace.

 _Yes,_ she thought weakly. _I am dead._

The last thing Ellaria remembered was vomiting onto someone's boots.


	5. Chapter 5

Maker, she felt so light. Cullen held her to his chestplate, feeling Ellaria's fitful heartbeat slow. Her normally vibrant eyes fluttered shut against her ashen face with a sense of finality. Even through his thick moleskin gloves he could feel how cold she was.

He had not wanted her to stay at Haven. There was plenty who would have been willing to volunteer, sacrificing themselves for the greater good. When Ellaria had spoken, Cullen was certain she was being sent to her death. And yet. . . he could not refuse her, much as it pained him. There could be no one else.

His own fears insisted that he would never see her again, and it was a jarring experience. He felt both fear and guilt, fervently praying for her safety when Ellaria set her jaw with gritted teeth, nodding as an uncertain resolve laced her expression. He was. . . useless, then. _Worse,_ he decided, _because that implied I had purpose and simply failed._ At that chilling moment, Cullen became nothing.

 _Had to be me. Someone else might have gotten it wrong._ Ellaria had bitten her lip, soot staining her sallow cheekbones as her gaze latched onto his with a feverish intensity. He then realised how young she was. A slender youth with intent, vivid eyes, a freckled nose, and thick moonstone hair which glowed in the torchlight.

 _No,_ he thought, shaking his head in desperation. _Maker, no. She didn't deserve this._ Those heroic, hopeless words struck him, taking root in his soul. They poisoned his mind, tainting his mouth and scorching his tongue as he tasted bitterness and regret.

Andraste preserve him, but he'd wanted nothing more than to touch her comely face with trembling hands before she was torn from his grasp. Unknown feelings coiled in his gut as he took another step through a waist-high snowdrift, the moonlight silvering his hair until he appeared as an ethereal ghost traipsing through the countryside.

Off in the distance a wolf howled.

Cullen was too familiar with her decision. With giving yourself until there wasn't anything left. Until you felt hollow and dry and pointless. Unwanted memories flooded him, and although they took place almost a decade past they still felt fresh and painful to his mind; mellifluous laughter; the crisp rustling of ancient textbooks; a curious slantwise glance.

 _I knew an elf._ But she had been a cheerful, spry mage. A celestial figure with black hair and pale green eyes. A woman who'd always smiled at him, her eyelashes quivering in a raunchy amusement. He'd blushed and stuttered at her cheekiness, forcing himself to march away as she burst into titters and resumed her studies. _I knew her,_ Cullen thought sadly as his brow furrowed. She had been kind, and brave, and beautiful beyond compare.

And dead.

He swallowed thickly. Cullen had not felt so much unbridled terror until seeing the Herald facing that. . . monster. That _beast_. He had been afraid for her safety, fearing that someone he knew would once again sacrifice themselves needlessly, adding to his nightmares. Even a raving Meredith hadn't provoked such a violent reaction. The only horror surpassing Ellaria's yelps of pain as he set the arrow alight was from. . . from. . .

Uldred's tower.

A sultry and feminine moan snaked into his mind. It pleaded with him as pointed, pebbled breasts pressed against his filigreed breastplate. _Cullen, please. . ._ She was begging him again, torturing him, her head thrown back wildly to expose the ivory curves of her neck as she cupped his hardness with deft ink-stained fingers.

Laughter. Cruel laughter. A knotted whip, lashing across his glistening skin as the armour melted away as if by magic. And instead of _her_ , instead of his impossible hopes, there had been a nightmare staring back at him, cackling devilishly as the thing dug wickedly-sharp nails into his—

He made a choking noise, stumbling through a snowbank. Ellaria shuddered, drawing him back to reality. He stared down at her, aghast that his thoughts led him astray. From her. Twilight deepened around them as a crisp wind sliced through his layers of boiled leather and oiled ringmail. He couldn't imagine how the Herald felt.

Cullen had found her more a half-frozen corpse than anything. His immense relief had given way to the vestiges of gnawing worry. She writhed underneath his touch, begging and sobbing with a haunted, intangible look. As if demons possessed her, he realised belatedly. For a fleeting moment he was grateful she wasn't a mage. _She can't be possessed,_ he told himself. And therefore he couldn't hurt her.

 _You already have,_ a poisonous thought whispered. _She's going to die because of you._ Cullen took a deep breath, forcing his doubts away even as he struggled with his conscious. _If only you tried harder._

But he had. He _had_. Cullen gently brushed a wispy lock of hair from her forehead with the backs of his knuckles. It did—it did not matter, he told himself, shaking his head. She would survive, and he'd prove his loyalty to the cause. He wouldn't allow the alternative. Ellaria trusted him, and he refused to betray her. She was his. . . friend.

 _Is she?_

 _Stop that,_ Cullen scolded, feeling bashful as he listened to the laboured breaths rattling her lungs. He was almost to the makeshift camp, following Cassandra's heavy imprints in the thin crust of snow, tangled roots, and muck.

 _"You must focus," she sang sweetly, dancing down the marbled galleries with slippered feet. "It isn't as if you're heading to a secret dalliance." She pursed her delicate lips, cocking an eyebrow even as she offered him a gloved hand. ". . . are you. . .?"_

Cullen shoved the phantoms from his head. They would not torment him. Not now. A frustrated blush stained his hairline, shouting the defiance of his feelings as he tripped. Feelings that should have crumbled with time. She was dead. She was _dead_. And there was a living, breathing woman he was holding. But barely. She was barely there.

She was more important.

 _Please,_ he swore, gently relinquishing his hold on her when Solas and a column of guards approached. Cullen was nearly blinded from the torches, the light giving him a ghostly, jaundiced look. He scrubbed lobstered gauntlets through his mussed hair, fighting off a headache with a pained grimace. He followed them with halted steps.

The camp was less of a refuge and more of a cluttered, chaotic mess. A ring of torches and sentries surrounded slate ridges and deep snowdrifts, and Cullen could hear a burbling stream nearby. Broken wayns and tatters of cloth served for crude tents as people huddled around fires to keep warm, their murmurs quieted as they stared at the entourage with widened eyes. The mountains loomed over them, yard-long icicles glimmering wetly in the darkness as ironwood and grey-green sentinels cloaked the undergrowth with purple shadows and rustled like living things.

 _Is she just a friend?_

The Herald had kissed the corner of his mouth. And whom he had held hands with in the midst of battle. A woman he feared was dying. She was an enigma that baffled and intrigued him without knowing why. _I knew an elf._

 _"Tender like a rose," Surana announced, flouncing alongside him. Her sharp eyes sparkled with mischief, hands clasped in a devout fashion that was rather unlike her. "The Blooming Rose!" she screeched, her peals of phantom, girlish laughter echoing in the library._

Strange.

He watched as Mother Giselle took over with a stern, reproachful look, moving Ellaria into an enclosed tent made of sewn leather hides and tethered near the latrines. It looked sumptuous and forbidding compared to the ragtag shelters, the flaps billowing in the wind.

Cullen desperately prayed it wasn't too late.

 **O-~O-~O**

"There is vomit on your boots."

He looked down, surprise marring his face. "Oh," he said, finally noticing the slippery bile plastered onto his tarnished greaves. "Yes, there is, isn't there." His voice was bland, expressionless.

Cassandra frowned. "Are you alright? You seem. . . preoccupied." She was sitting on a stave of broken barrels, sharpening her shortsword with an oiled whetstone. The accustomed, _rasp, rasp,_ was usually a soothing lullaby, but now it grated on his ears with a piercing wail.

"I'm fine," he answered readily. "This has simply taken a toll." _She does not haunt my thoughts so much_. Cullen shook his head, attempting a weak smile. "Forgive me. We should assemble the council."

Cassandra huffed, brandishing her sword in the torchlight. Flames glimmered alongside the edges and fullers, hungrily licking at the metal. It was double-bladed steel, castle-forged with a leathery grip stained from hard use. "I agree." She sheathed the weapon, grunting in approval when Cullen helped her to her feet.

The warrior quickly matched his restless pace, hesitating at his changed demeanour. "You are fine?" she asked bluntly, staring at him with an odd, suspicious look.

Leliana slipped from the shadows before Cullen could answer her, greeting them softly. Her eyes shone in the darkness like chips of stone. "I have heard you found the Herald."

Cassandra snorted, crossing stout arms over her ample chest. Without her armour she looked. . . vulnerable. She held an uncomfortable stance, scowling at anyone who dared look at her long enough to gain the warrior's dour attention. "Barely. Mother Giselle and Solas are tending to her."

Leliana brushed stray feathers from her trimmed sable cloak, nodding to herself. "This is good news. Morale will spread knowing of her survival."

No one spoke for a few minutes, each avoiding the other's gaze. Cullen rubbed his neck, watching as Leliana's piercing eyes flitted through the camp, landing on her beloved ravens. She gave a hint of a smile, her mouth curling upwards in approval. They cawed and shrieked harshly, clawing at their cages and nipping any unfortunates who came too close.

"I will find Josephine," Cassandra announced, breaking the tense silence that had cloaked them with its suffocating embrace. She strode away looking much more confident than she felt.

Leliana gave a hard, brittle smile when they were alone. "She'll be taking stock of our supplies, no doubt." Her expression turned into that of a thoughtful frown as her brow furrowed. "We do not have enough food and shelter for everyone."

"I know," he replied sourly. It was a dilemma which Cullen wasn't as familiar with, and he didn't know how to appease the people without inciting more heartache and trouble. The fact that they had more refugees than soldiers posed a difficult problem. Many of them were sickly and infirm. He wanted to massage his temples and scream as a wave of blinding pain assaulted his head. "They'll all be clamouring for their shares. Children and infirm first." He watched Leliana observe his dishevelled state. She motioned towards his boots, but he made no response beyond sighing and gritting his teeth.

Cullen blinked, breathing deeply as a mangy dog dashed past his feet, whining as a tear-streaked child gave chase. He felt the world begin to tilt as he leaned against a wayn, trembling madly. The pain was nigh unbearable. It tore through his senses as—

"Cullen?" Leliana canted her head. "You look. . . pale."

"I'm fine," he snapped tersely, running a hand through his limp curls. "I just—I need rest."

A sympathetic look filled her eyes, but she didn't press the matter. Instead she wrestled out a crude table, refusing his help and cursing when splinters embedded themselves into her gloved hands. A nervous laugh escaped her. "I've grown soft," Leliana admonished, searching through a lean-to before bringing out two tankards.

He didn't argue when she pressed one into his grasp, pouring fermented hops until froth overtopped the brim. It made his fingers stick. The cloying scent of alcohol reached his nostrils as he drank, closing his golden-brown eyes in relief. When he opened them, the world realigned itself and the headache lessened.

Josephine arrived shortly thereafter, Cassandra marching behind her. They both carried bundles of sealed scrolls and burlap sacks brimming with foodstuff. The guards looked at them curiously but didn't interfere.

"The Herald lives!" The ambassador exclaimed, her eyes glistening wetly as fresh tears adorned her rosy cheeks. The colour had returned to her dainty face, though she still looked rather drawn and weary from exertion. Cullen was uncertain that she had ever faced proper battle before. "Her bravery honours the Inquisition."

"She breathes. But not for long in these conditions," Cassandra declared, shifting to glance at the undermanned sentries. They wore boiled leathers and moth-eaten cloaks, gripping rusted swords and pitchforks as weapons. Should a proper force descend upon them they'd be woefully underprepared.

"Many will not survive unless we find a safer refuge," Leliana retorted sharply, placing a tarnished mug into the Cassandra's hand. She turned to Josephine and frowned when the ambassador declined with a cool look.

"In the mountains?" Cassandra looked dubious as she took a hearty swig. "Even that _thing_ cannot find us. How could we hope to survive, lost as we are?" A chill wind swept through the camp, making them shiver.

"We must try," Josephine argued. She unrolled a yellowed parchment, weighting it with stones. She pointed, rolling up the dagged sleeves of her dress. "There are caverns here that could—"

Leliana snorted humourlessly, waving a hand. "These maps are centuries old, Josie. What good would they serve us?"

Josephine sent her friend an annoyed look. "What will we have to lose?" she demanded fiercely, her accent thickening in frustration and anger. "We can't allow—"

"But you're not seeing the bigger picture—"

Josephine stamped her foot, pursing her lips. "Stop interrupting me!" Her face was flushed with embarrassment at the lack of manners.

"Then start being useful," Leliana snapped scornfully, leaning on the table as a tempest began to brew in her expression.

"I'm trying to u—"

"Its name is Corypheus," Cullen said softly, interrupting the argument as the thick tension settled. An ominous silence descended upon them as they all quieted. He cleared his throat, setting aside the drink. "I got a good look at it when I shot the arrow. Back at Haven." He squinted at the map, trying to make sense of the squiggles. Cullen _knew_ they were words and markings, but they refused to make sense.

Leliana's eyes gentled. "I see." Then, after a pause, "Let word spread of the Herald's survival, if it hasn't already, but deny any requests to see her save a few. Let the smallfolk celebrate where they can, and break open any untouched casks."

"But—"

"Do it." Leliana touched Josephine's shoulder almost tenderly, albeit her tone was firm and unyielding. "We will discuss this later." Her voice brooked no argument, and the council quickly dispersed. Cassandra slunk away towards the camp's edges muttering dissent, and Josephine gathered her unruly scrolls and retreated further south with a haughty flounce in her step. Her decadent gown brushed against the ground, becoming laden with heavy snow.

Leliana nudged his shoulder. "You should sleep. There is a tent prepared for you."

Cullen faced her, startled from his reverie. "There are more—"

"No. I have had enough squabbling. Don't."

"Are you," Cullen spluttered, rubbing his blood-shot eyes, "are you _threatening_ me?" He felt incredulous.

Leliana's look narrowed a touch. "It's near the campfires," she responded, though not unkindly. "Your helmet is outside by the entrance."

Cullen was at a complete loss. "You already prepared this for me." He felt grateful but undeserving, gaping at her foolishly like an idiot. There were far more worthy people in need of shelter. He opened his mouth to speak, and as if guessing his thoughts Leliana silenced him. She began to talk gibberish, and Cullen swayed in an unfelt breeze as a confused flush spread over his face.

He blinked, a sudden darkness fawning over him with cool gusts of wind that bathed his rugged features. It was bottomless, beckoning him with unknown whispers and promises. When he opened his eyes the world was distorted.

Cullen didn't remember the journey to his tent, everything passing in a woozy haze as he clutched at the spymaster's sleeves with a vicelike grip. Her voice melded into one of concern when he puked without warning as the whispers grew louder. And then he was suddenly moving—moving? He couldn't make sense of the directions, tripping and stumbling about like a fool as the sky and earth spun together in a mesmerising dance. He felt uncomfortably hot, staring at his surroundings with a dazed look.

Maker, he couldn't recall such a terrible migraine. It wracked through his body, draining him completely. He felt his veins singing in agony as they twisted and begged for lyrium. For release from its climax. _I shouldn't. . . myself. Push myself. Maker._

Maker. Oh. . . Maker. He couldn't—couldn't _think_.

And then Cullen was suddenly in a cot, staring at the ceiling as his muscles throbbed and screamed. He smelled stale vomit and leather, wrinkling his nose in disgust and finding his strength sapped. He felt paralysed, unable to move.

 _"Shhhh." Surana leaned over him, pressing a flask to his cracked lips as magic flared from above. "Drink," she crooned, her heart-shaped face contorting into an ugly mask. "It will take the pain away. I promise."_

Cullen fought against her, finding that he was much, much weaker. Panic muffled his words as the liquid seeped down his throat without his consent. It scorched his insides, the acrid taste violating his mouth. A hand massaged his neck, forcing him to swallow as he spluttered, and, in his delirium, tried to summon a smite.

But there was nothing there. His senses prickled as he reached for lyrium and found none. He was. . . empty. Worthless. Half-formed gold tendrils evaporated like mist as a cool washcloth covered Cullen's brow.

His movements slowed as the drug seeped into his body, its potency masked by an oversweetness that clung to him. Cullen gave a feeble moan, vaguely seeing the blurry outline of Mother Giselle before succumbing to a blessed unconsciousness.

 **O-~O-~O**

When he awoke, everything was still and quiet. Cullen sat up slowly, running a clammy hand down his face. He shivered, sweat drenching his clothes and bedroll. He peered into the dim tent with squinted eyes. His limbs trembled from exertion when he sat upright, then slowly stood.

His armour was in the corner, carefully laid out and swathed in cotton rags for protection. Tepid water splashed onto his bare feet as he tripped over a porcelain bowl. Cullen made a noise, barely containing his volatile nerves.

It was always a slow process after his withdrawals. Recovery was painful, and Cullen usually felt drained and, well. . . _ancient_. It was an out-of-body experience, something he couldn't quite describe. Especially if he pushed himself.

Things would slip by in a dizzying blur, colours, shapes and lines meshing unnaturally until he felt terrible and nauseous. Sometimes he fought it, but as time dragged onwards he became more susceptible and frail. He looked at his hands, half expecting to see them wrinkled and veined.

But he couldn't abandon the cause, not after pledging his service before Andraste. As Commander of the Inquisition, he was beholden to it. Cullen would carry on as he always did, despite the pain and nightmares. He was just afraid of breaking, of disappointing his comrades and the Herald. . .

He would tell Cassandra about resigning if anything turned drastic. He had given the idea no amount of small thought, wondering the consequences and planning ahead. The woman wouldn't like it, he knew, and might even try to rebuff him when pressed. _I'm her superior,_ Cullen snapped to himself. _I can command her to do it if need arises._

Until then, there was work to do. Cullen walked towards his adornments with uneasy steps. He gently slipped into leather breeches and a quilted tunic, his nightclothes falling into a rumpled, discarded pile. With stiff motions he started fastening on his breastplate after cleaning his face in a small washbasin. The clasps and buckles from Cullen's greaves jingled merrily as he reached for his velveteen cloak. A warm softness pooled around his fingers as fur brushed his nose, finally settling against his neck in a comforting embrace.

 _Craaack._

His tent was suddenly green, flashes of whitish-blue motes swarming his armour. Cullen stumbled, instinctively reaching for his sword as he heard a thin, high scream accompanied by the outlines of demons.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:** Sorry for the wait! I finished the Trespasser DLC and. . . wow. Lol. Also, I accidentally deleted this chapter and had to rewrite it, so I apologise for not posting earlier. _

_Thanks for all the support, it makes me warm and fuzzy inside._

* * *

She didn't like Skyhold.

It was massive and decrepit, confining her in the most oddest of ways. Ellaria became lost more than once, stumbling through vaulted corridors and painted galleries. Piquant flowers spiced the air as trees shed their foliage for autumn and birds twittered merrily from dappled nests. Flagstones warmed her feet as she wandered between the rows of canvas tents, marvelling at the windswept parapets and obsidian walls.

It was a different world from the outside. Mountains rose in the background to form a awe-inspiring view. Stately oaks and half-shrouded pines clustered near the bases, clinging to the steep, shingled outcroppings with gnarled roots.

Yet the castle was accommodating. It held a stark beauty untouched by time, housing lush porcelain gardens and terraced courtyards overgrown with weeds and purple ivy. She couldn't help but wonder how the place hadn't been discovered earlier with its fantastic murals decorating the walls. Truly, it was the epitome of beauty.

Unlike her, she thought.

Ellaria hadn't slept in what seemed like months, helping refugees and avoiding her advisors all in the same breath. Greasy tangles matted her hair, and dirt made her nearly unrecognisable with filth and soot as hunger sharpened her slender figure.

Nightmares haunted her relentlessly, and fear spurred her footsteps when she remembered Corypheus' scouts ambushing them in the countryside. Ellaria would never forget the sensation of awaking to her Mark flickering to life in a flash of pain, nor the gruesome sight of Cullen bathed in fresh blood. The cutting, merciless wind assaulted her when she stumbled outside to see the massacre before collapsing once again from fatigue and weakness.

No demons survived, but fear and questions abounded aplenty, pulsating through the crowd with a relentless energy about how the enemy had found them so quickly. Her advisors had summoned her to a council beneath the creaking boughs of a majestic sycamore, needling her with opinions and inquiries she couldn't answer.

They were interrupted before too long, though, the people worshipping Ellaria as they dragged her from the shadows. She could clearly remember the admiring, fervent looks painted on their bedraggled faces as they praised the Herald of Andraste's boundless courage.

 _I did nothing!_ she had wanted to scream, yet merely kept a disgruntled quietude as a response. Ellaria felt like a trained mongrel, listening to their prayers and watching helplessly as they bowed and sang to a foreign god. Even the Commander had joined them, sinking before her as his eyes held such confidence and faith in her abilities. Something that she was sorely lacking. Something she keenly needed.

 _How can I be good enough?_

Solas had been the solitary figure who hadn't kneeled to her. He had stood her equal in a disdainful, stony silence, viewing the masses from the twilight as countless voices rose in unified song. Then he drew her away towards the forest, babbling nonsense about her heritage and the orb. About her duty and the consequences.

But the longer she stayed with the Inquisition, the more she felt alienated. Even her dreams and whispers denounced her as a heretic. Each dawn heralded a morning where she became less Dalish, and more an uncertain half-breed that didn't belong.

It made her feel—well, she wasn't sure _what_ she felt, but a sparkle of sympathy kindled within her breast when Solas sighed, and she agreed to keep the secret in lieu of arguing needlessly. She had frowned, touching the furrows in his smooth brow. He was thrice her years, yet the dignified way he held himself made him appear almost ageless. And sometimes. . . sometimes his gaze lingered with a bittersweet look she couldn't decipher.

"Da'len," Solas had said softly. He held her calloused hands in a comforting manner as unknown tears marred her face. The endearment he used was piercing, and Ellaria knew she hadn't deserved such affection. "Everything will be fixed, in due time."

When he slipped away she sat alone on a boulder, drowning in her thoughts before a servant fetched her back to camp and her duties. The Revered Mother changed the bandages 'round her chest, and a faded map mysteriously appeared the next evening on her bedroll.

And now she was here.

Right now, though, Ellaria was only another casualty to the masses, a tattered muslin frock she'd snatched framing her emaciated body. Even Leliana couldn't locate her as she fetched the healer some leeches or helped amputate swollen limbs.

Her fingers ached from exhaustion as she strode towards the sick tents, ignoring the pain in her legs. She wasn't healed yet, and her wounds still felt sore and tender like a perpetual thorn. Giselle had scolded her severely, but she was avoiding the Revered Mother too.

 _Creators,_ she prayed, begging for strength. But the gods were silent in their mockery and did not answer. So many people were dying, and it was because of _her_. To keep running and running from her courtly duties was a foolish and cravenly idea. And yet . . .

And yet.

Haven was her mistake. Not her mentors. She had led everyone to hardship and ruin, and countless deaths weighed heavily on her shoulders. Ellaria needed to repair her blunders, even if the smallfolk sneered at her approach. Responsibilities could wait until the people weren't hungry or terrified. She could sacrifice her own needs in the meantime. Surely they understood, she hoped.

She needed to be good enough.

Ellaria retreated behind the abandoned mews, skirting a pile of rubble and baskets of untended laundry as exhaustion slowed her movements. Loose stones, mouldy straw, and fewmets littered the uneven ground as thistles and dandelions sprouted merrily despite the distant rumblings of thunder.

A grey-clad hunter dressed in a studded jerkin was skinning a boar nearby, while another stoked the flames of a fire and hummed tunelessly. And a pasty-faced girl with ribbons twirling in her brown hair carried a bundle of whittled sticks. Her cheekbones were gaunt, albeit her footsteps were nimble and quick. She smiled at a passing sentry, exchanging wood for a crust of stale bread.

There was hope here. It was tenuous, but it was growing. And growth was important. _I am needed,_ she thought. She couldn't abandon them now because some noble might become offended. There were no politics here, no far-reaching consequences. Only people trying to live. And she could help. She could prove herself.

A peculiar smell always heralded the infirm, masked by bitter poultices and burning flesh. It wasn't long before she saw the infirmary, people covering their noses with strips of grimy, stained cloth and hovering about with leaking buckets. The local healer stood above them, dressed in a faded pinafore and ordering pages about. She warmly addressed a blonde-haired mage with an aquiline nose, moving gracefully towards a tent.

The pleads of the dying reverberated in the infectious domain as Ellaria dipped her head, scarring her with sobs and wails of mercy. The air felt humid, suffocating her with its oppressive clutches as she walked, her steps resolute if not firm.

 _I can help. I should be good enough._

"Please. . . please." A woman grasped her hand with a surprising strength, blood dripping out of her cracked, dry lips. A calm touch quieted her as Ellaria drew out a washcloth from a basin of water and dabbed at the patient's bared chest, diligently cleaning out the congealed pus. Her left breast was completely demolished—it looked like some savage beast had gnawed at it. _Demon's bite,_ she thought wearily, recalling the healer's warning. She wasn't the first victim to come here affected by it, but hers was by far the worst she'd seen yet.

She was a young girl, with curled brown hair and feverish eyes that begged for clemency. Incoherent with pain, she went ballistic when Ellaria sprinkled salt on her flesh, writhing as if possessed. Though there were wooden screens and tents to give the more severe patients privacy, nothing could silence the screams.

Sweat beaded her brow as she wrapped the woman's chest in starched linens coated with a pungent healing salve. Ellaria bent down, allowing the girl the clutch her wrists passionately as she cried.

"It's okay," she said softly, closing her eyes for half a heartbeat as the woman's nails dug into her skin. Rivulets of blood dripped down her calloused fingertips, and she winced with pain. Ellaria restrained the patient in some of her more violent throes, holding her with an effort so that she wouldn't injure herself. "You're going to be okay." She lapsed into a momentary, fatigued silence when the woman started coughing, her limbs slowly going limp with deadened weight.

"No," she said almost angrily, shaking her. "I won't let you die." Ellaria whispered the words fervently, speaking faster and faster as the girl's strength suddenly started to fade. Desperation stirred inside her at losing another soul so quickly, at failing at her duties and saving others. She could only do so much with limited poultices. . .

 _You're not good enough. You did this._

The woman forced a grimace, reaching up a hand shakily and smearing fresh blood on Ellaria's jaw. "Please. . ." Her raw voice broke from exhertion. "I. . ." She coughed again, wheezing rabidly. The woman uttered something unintelligible as she screamed, pointing up at the cloudless sky in a final hysteria.

She spewed up more gore, spattering Ellaria's face. The colour was unnatural; a thick oozing red that was more black than any other shade she knew. Struggling, she laid the glassy-eyed woman down as her frantic heartbeat stilled to nothing. Only her skin stayed a fiery warmth, reflecting the wound she'd sustained—the bite could make a corpse feel as hot as coals for up to a month, even buried beneath frozen soil.

Ellaria stared at her remorsefully before turning away, wiping the blood onto her stained apron. She felt tainted, moving around the screen and scrubbing her filthy face with equally filthy hands. I need something cold, she decided, but everything was in desperate supply. Even the murky, brackish well-water was rationed until more provisions arrived.

 _If you revealed yourself you'd have fresh, clear water. And maybe a nice bed._

She banished the traitorous thoughts, her eyes becoming downcast as lightning shook the sky in a dismal warning and large clouds choked the sunlight into submission. The climate quickly turned foul and it began to rain.

The surgeon smiled softly as Ellaria approached, accosting her with periwinkle eyes and undeterred by the severe weather. "Thank you for helping," she greeted, her expression worn but amiable. "You have done plenty." Garbed in a plain brown robe with a coarse hempen, there was a deep graze on the left side of her golden head, most of her thick hair gone with it. "Thankfully, the wounded are dwindling."

"That's because they're all dying. There's no point in wasting supplies if nothing works," Ellaria retorted bitterly. They couldn't last much longer unless their stores were replenished. Was Josephine working on that? She _was_ the ambassador, wasn't she?

The Herald had never been good at social niceties and politics. Nor healing as well, it seemed. Ellaria could barely write her own name, let alone read foreign languages or perform a curtesy. Even the advisors held more knowledge, creating a barrier where she felt inferior to them. Her flaws shone prominently before them, and she feared that her discreet glances towards Cullen did not go unnoticed.

Ellaria sighed deeply, continuing, "We burn the dead like they don't mean anything, only to make room for the dying."

The healer pursed her lips in a motherly disapproval. "We must try," she rejoined stoutly, clicking her tongue at a passing page. "However, you have done enough, child."

Ellaria shook her head, preparing to argue. "I—"

"Rest," the woman insisted, this time less gently. She laid a wrinkled hand against her slim wrist. "Someone so young shouldn't be amongst the dying this long. Besides, those advisors will be looking for you."

The Herald stared at her, but said nothing out of incredulity. "You know me," she finally said, her lilting voice now hoarse with emotion. Ellaria shivered from the biting cold, huddling her arms together for warmth as fat raindrops plopped against the ground, grass and soil churning together into clumps of wet, heavy mud.

The healer nodded sagely, watching as Ellaria's shoulders hunched in defeat. "I first tended you in Haven. After a while, I was sent away for more. . ." Here she paused, hesitating briefly. ". . . skilled hands."

"Adan," Ellaria said. Another death lost in the carnage. Someone she couldn't save. She felt so. . . useless, then. _You're not good enough._

"Yes. And now I am the one surviving." The healer's laugh was coarse and rueful. She directed a pimpled volunteer towards a pile of unrolled bandages with ruddy hands. "I know what it is to feel responsible for so many lives. 'Tis a heavy burden, and one you shouldn't have alone. No one should."

She drew them beneath a tent, wringing a spotted, threadbare rag. The surgeon bathed a soldier's brow, soothing him with tender but firm ministrations. Ellaria was unable to tear her eyes away from the man's horrid complexion and the gaping wound on his mottled thigh.

"I am avoiding them," she confessed, handing the healer a set of sterilised needles. "I know I shouldn't, but I—I don't really know why. Maybe because I caused this, because it's all my fault and I should fix this and. . ." Ellaria stopped abruptly, realising that she was speaking nonsense. A startled flush suffused her face. It was strange, but she felt oddly relieved as well.

Her companion chuckled wryly, though her countenance was resigned and sad. "Everyone has their share of woes, lady." She dipped her head. "The maggots, please."

Ellaria grimaced, glad for the diversion as she grabbed a handful of the pale squirming insects and deposited them inside a bowl. The healer mashed them into a paste, then slathered the worms onto the soldier's gash.

"I am sorry that someone so young must needs bear such a heavy burden," she added, wiping her hands on a frieze apron as she prepared for a bloodletting, "but there is no one else to take its mantle."

"I know."

"Do you?" The healer challenged, a disapproving frown striking her homely features. "I think not. Tending to these people is all well and good, mind you, but you're the Herald of _Andraste_. We need you as a leader. You're hope to us. You're a symbol."

"But I caused this," Ellaria murmured, thoroughly chastened. _They're hurting because of me._ "I just. . . I thought I was helping." She ran a hand through her damp, unruly hair. _I'm sorry,_ she thought bitterly, unable to say anything else.

How could she possibly be good enough?

 _No. You belong down here,_ a voice nagged, sending doubts spiralling through her. _You healed the Breach, you're not useful anymore. Let them kill Corypheus._

But the ancient magister wanted her. And he would tear Thedas apart if she did nothing. Was it time to reveal herself? They would be upset, she knew. Yet she was no leader. The Mark was solely responsible for everything, and someone else might have just as easily taken her place. Without it, she was. . .

 _I don't know what I am, anymore._

"You can help by doing what you're supposed to," the healer announced, though not unkindly. Ellaria blinked, turning her attention upon the woman as she was drawn from her reverie. "You came back from the dead, after all. You're all we have, divine providence or not."

 _Am I?_ she asked herself, suddenly finding her welcome overdrawn. She was an outlander and a knife-ear. An outcast even from her own people—they would not accept her now, she was certain. _I shouldn't be worshipped for things I can't control._

Ellaria departed from the healer's company without further goodbye, wandering aimlessly down a cobbled path and ducking between tents. The plain garments she wore clung to her, chilling her bones through and through. She traipsed past the bailey and outer training yards, watching numbly as people sought shelter from the harsh weather.

 _Do I have a choice?_ she wondered, watching as pigeons frolicked in the gathering puddles. Their dove-grey feathers were unruffled as they cooed sweetly at any passerby. She fancied them and their lack of decisions and worries.

Ellaria shook her head at the unknown question, freezing mid-step when she heard Cullen's voice above the muffled squabbles. He sounded irritable, barking orders at a pair of hapless sentries who saluted him in return. They wore black leathers, chainmail, and polished pothelms with sodden scarves wrapped around their necks.

 _They must have found the armoury,_ she thought, peering from behind a stack of crates. They marched past her, oblivious as she stared at the entourage with widened eyes. Falchions glittered from belted hips, and Ellaria caught snatches of their conversation.

"—Find tha bloody Herald," one said, a redhead with brown eyes almost black. The other soldier agreed, a pockmarked, bovine youth who nodded eagerly and grinned. Ellaria ducked her head, watching as they disappeared amongst the bustling throng of refugees and pilgrims.

They were looking for her. _Of course they are,_ she admonished angrily. Her disappearance would have worsened things, and her truancy would have upset them greatly with the known danger she presented. _I knew this already._

But she doubted herself. Were pompous nobles the only people affected if she stayed hidden, or were there other ramifications since she was the Herald of Andraste?

This was too much all of a sudden. Too _much_. She felt overwhelmed and alone, struggling with her choices. One circumstance led to another where she was stripped of choice and freedom since birth. And now, and now—

The healer's words echoed in her head. _You are the Herald,_ she thought emptily. _You belong with them._

And, as much as she hated it, the surgeon was right. Ellaria wasn't smart enough, or pretty enough, or well-versed in affairs to compete with the gentry. But she was capable, and she was a symbol. To deprive them of that was wasteful.

Resolve filled Ellaria as she returned her gaze to Cullen. He leaned against a table, hastily writing something down beneath an erected lean-to as he stood by a massive sprawling staircase. Moss clung to the ancient steps as it bloomed in a shocking frenzy of colour, defying the brewing storm with a playful vibrance.

She could have sworn she heard Cullen's feathered quill scrabbling furiously onto the thick parchment even from where she perched. The pinions quivered in the air as flashes of lightning set his golden hair aflame like a fine morning mist.

His amber eyes creased with intent and purpose, and he squinted, turning his attention elsewhere to a plethora of maps and books which littered a large, cluttered workspace. He licked his thumb before flipping to a yellowed page concerning formulas, the crabbed handwriting intelligible and faded.

He looked tired. Exhausted, really. His fancy gloves curled onto themselves into tight fists as he took a deep, unsteady breath, rubbing his temples and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

Suddenly, an ice-cold hand gripped her arm, wrenching her aside. Ellaria glanced over, surprised to see Cole. The clarity in his vivid gaze was almost blinding as he released his vice-like grip.

"Death," he breathed, his clawed fingers entangling in her hair and snagging painfully. "Death and fire and blood."

"Stop," she said quietly, tearing away from his grasp with a confused look. Their shadows mingled in the thunderous sky to create a grotesque, horrifying beast which defied description.

"It won't stop," he said feebly, his warm, rancid breath ghosting over her mouth. Unshed tears welled in his phantom-like eyes. His gaze was both heartbreaking and unfathomable. "It won't stop, Creators. Why won't it? You don't know why they keep coming, shoved away for so long. But they're breaking free, dark, scary tendrils. Screaming, thrashing, praying they won't notice. Little Rabbit."

Ellaria tore from him, a strangled noise resounding in her throat. She staggered against a fluttering banner, clutching the rippling fabric with a desperate strength.

Cole seemed suddenly ashamed. He scuffed his boots into the dirt, a bashful look creeping onto his disjointed face. "I'm sorry I noticed," he said, his pupils clear-cut and shining with a vibrant lucency. The spirit clasped hands around his little potbelly stomach. "You're hurting."

"No," Ellaria croaked, her breath hitching with emotion. She touched her throat, staring at him with dark bewildered eyes. Panic overtook her, and she felt her veins thrumming from adrenaline. _Not here. Not so close._

Templars didn't hurt just mages.

Why hadn't Deshanna warned her? Why? _I thought myself invincible._ So many years left in isolation. Friendless, loveless. Ellaria felt a monster, then, kept at a distance as a cautionary tale for the other children. And she still hadn't understood. Now, she longed for romance yet was petrified with the thought of being hurt again.

 _The Commander's a templar. . ._ But he was a good one. He was kind. Once Ellaria recovered from her delirium in the mountains, she had felt ashamed at her behaviour towards him and strove to do better. Her admiration for him had quickly grown into something unknown. Not unlike. . . unlike infatuation, she realised with horror.

Cole gave a perplexed frown. Soil clung to his grubby fingernails as he cupped Ellaria's cheek with a soft gentleness. Fresh snot dribbled from his nostrils and glistened wetly on his upper lip. "So much hurting," he said, puzzled. "He sees you, and the world changes. It's a pearl of pain, shattering shackles and hurting bygones. What _are_ you?"

Then the boy just . . . vanished into thim air, as if he had never existed at all. Ellaria blinked, glancing around in bafflement and consternation. She braced for support, staggering drunkenly as the downpour flattened her hair.

 _Breathe,_ she scolded, running shaking fingers through her collar. For a fleeting moment her mind had clouded with fresh terrors and she was reliving her painful adolescence. Ellaria heaved an uncertain breath, calming herself as her lilac eyes belied the maelstrom brewing within.

She didn't see Cullen until too late. Recognition flickered in the Commander's amber-flecked eyes as he gazed at her from across the courtyard. Shock lined his weathered visage, and there was a sheen of sweat on his broad forehead. He frowned at her, opening his mouth as furrows creased his face and left him looking vulnerable.

"Herald?" Cullen was staring at her, his cloak swishing in the breeze. He sounded hesitant, a scroll hanging limply from gauntleted fingers. "I. . ."

Ellaria bit her tongue until she tasted blood. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she babbled lamely, "I only. . . only. . ."

Cullen stopped, nonplussed at the resigned expression she wore. "I—my lady, I was only—I have been looking for you, w-we all have. I was. . . I was only writing. Herald." He seemed nervous. Ellaria had expected him to become angry or annoyed, but instead she saw only concern in his amicable eyes. And that utterly confused her.

"Oh."

"We were searching, but—how are you feeling? I was—I mean _we_ were worried. The council. Not just myself."

"I'm. . . better," she replied slowly. "I think. Forgive me, Commander. I was, uh. . . I was helping the surgeon." She gestured, slowly realising that her hands were scabbed and bleeding. She tucked them into the folds of her skirt, smiling weakly.

 _I need to be good enough. For them._

The relief was plain on his face. He gave a gentle smile, rubbing the back of his neck and nodding. "You look better. From Haven, I mean. And the mountains." His eyes darkened with memories and sorrow. Her heartbeat foolishly quickened in response.

"At least there's no more ambushes." Her voice dwindled into nothingness when he remained serious. Ellaria glanced away, inhaling sharply as she blushed. "Haven was a mess," she said, staring at her dirtied feet. She went barefoot, as there was no shoe small enough to fit her.

Cullen's expression softened. "The council has been seeking you." The reprimand was oddly gentle, and his mannerisms were consoling. Had Cassandra stumbled across her instead things would have unfolded quite differently, she thought.

"I know." A harsh laughed escaped her, contrasting with her features. Ellaria frowned, biting her lip. "I know. You. . . you can lead me away. If you want. I heard those soldiers. I was only trying to, well, help. But I'm. . . I'm here."

"Is that what you want?" Cullen questioned, his warm eyes searching hers in such an intimate way that she couldn't help but feel uncomfortable.

"I want to help," she repeated stoutly.

"You want to, or you feel the need to?" he prodded, coming to stand beside her in the rain and needling wind. Stubble peppered his angular jaw, and he smelled faintly of oiled leather and musk. The Commander's fine cloak was plastered against his filigreed breastplate as he waited for an answer.

But Ellaria didn't have one. Not a feasible one to dissuade questions, at least. She knew that they needed her. Everybody did, it seemed. She had duties, and if the smallfolk accepted her as nothing less than the Herald of Andraste, then she would be there. Yet she did not know herself what she desired, and in her inner turmoil she kept silent.

"Varric has a contact who claims they have more information on Corypheus," Cullen said, watching her carefully. He crossed his arms over his chest, tipping his head towards her. "However, they're only willing with meet with _you_."

Ellaria smiled wanly. "I suppose we'll have to be introduced." It was too late to go back now. She was already here.

"Are you sure?"

She considered lying, then quickly thought against it. The Commander was an honest man, and she wouldn't deceive him for petty reasons. "No," she said firmly, turning to face him. "I'm not sure of anything. But I can do more as the Herald. With the council. I see that now."

"You regret all the deaths," he replied astutely. He shrugged when she appeared startled. "I know the feeling." Cullen chuckled humourlessly, a smile tugging at his lips.

"I'm sorry." Ellaria gave him a sincere look, gazing into his eyes. And she meant it. For everything. "I'm glad that you—that _everyone_ made it out," she stammered, faltering at the emotion in his face. "It just. . . it seems for everyone I saved, two more perished."

"As am I." Cullen said warmly. "It will not happen again. I promise." He gazed at her strangely, his pupils resembling molten gold with a fiery, unquenchable heat as thunder rumbled overhead.

Ellaria felt her breath hitch when he looked at her mouth, her heartbeat thudding violently. _What is he doing?_ she thought. Her feet turned paralytic as she looked at him, the worsening storm forgotten as he moved a step closer.

He reached a hand out, then suddenly stopped himself. Ellaria stared at his frozen, outspread fingers, and a deep, painful ache settled in her breast. She wanted him to touch her. To kiss her.

 _This is what I want._

It was a wild impulse, but—Mythal help her—one she craved. In this moment, she wasn't the Herald of Andraste. She wasn't the plundered, frightened girl clinging to her companions for support. She wasn't alone.

She felt slightly ashamed, knowing that the Commander would likely be horrified at her unseemly thoughts. At knowing a knife-ear was falling in love with him. He was probably too polite to refuse her, and she was misreading his intentions. He was—he was just helping. That's all.

 _Probably,_ a traitorous voice whispered, violating her head with its presence and refusing to leave. It giggled maniacally. _He wouldn't want an elf, silly little girl. He wouldn't want someone despoiled._

Yes. This—this was wrong. He was handsome and young and _human,_ and he deserved a woman. A noble. He. . . deserved better. The poisonous thought crushed her inside, and Ellaria shook her head in a silent denial as tears welled in her large eyes.

She was the Herald. She was his comrade. She was a stupid knife-ear. She. . . she was not a plaything or his lover. Nothing but heartache would come of this—this dalliance.

 _This nothing,_ she told herself rather forcefully, nodding briskly as the moment was broken. Ellaria stepped away with regretful haste. "Shall we go inside?" she asked quickly, cringing at how her voice shook.

"Of course." He dipped his head in deference, taking a deep breath. If Cullen was disappointed he didn't show it, leading to further dismay and heartache. He gathered his things and sent reports to his soldiers before his gloved hand slid to her back in a comforting manner and he guided her up the porous stone steps and into Skyhold's keep.


	7. Chapter 7

It was a beautiful afternoon when Cullen prepared himself.

He stared outside the latticed windowpanes, watching as the wind softly rustled the blue-and-green ivy which clung to his tower in a choking embrace. The sound was comforting, he thought, reminding him of Honnleath and his childhood.

He hadn't seen his family in years. Maker, but he hoped that they were safe. He could do little enough for them now, though Cullen prayed for them when he could manage. He would visit the small chantry situated in the gardens and let the cloying smell of incense thicken the air and inebriate him into a sense of artificial peace.

But their safety was a trivial matter in these desperate times, he knew, and likely to go unheeded when there were others far more deserving. Yet he couldn't help it. His agitation and fears were as much a part of his nature as his adornments. Surviving a harsh, bitter life had made him anxious to make sure no one suffered the same, and he strove daily to dissolve his prejudices.

His upbringing had not made it easy, and some of the mages here were still making it rather difficult. But he was trying, and it pleased him immensely to see the other templars take the initiative and do the same. The mages were finally beginning to realise that they were not, in fact, wards, but rather allies, and certain responsibilities were required of them. It was . . . humanising, he supposed. And beyond a few scuffles and pointed arguments the two opposing groups were getting on well enough. It shouldn't have surprised him.

Yet it did.

Cullen's thoughts returned to his family. He wondered if his mother's ailing cough persisted, or if Rosalie had finally settled down. Maker knew that the girl was the worst flirt to have ever existed. A sad smile tugged at his lips when he remembered the last letter Mia had sent almost a fortnight past. Beyond the usual demands that he needed to write more often, it voiced her concern about their sister and how she was nothing but trouble with the men.

"Ser, we should go," a scout urged. The youth peered at him nervously, leaning against the half-rotted doorframe and casting his frazzled gaze about the cluttered room. Cullen had claimed it for personal use, finding the isolated chamber rather pleasing. Besides, he enjoyed the crisp mountain air and how it allowed him to think without restraint. Thick dusty books were piled haphazardly in the dark corners, forgotten for countless summers as he trailed a gloved hand over an enormous desk and fixed the boy with a reprimanding look.

He had always loved books. Their novel stories and parchment had enthralled him growing up and made him forget hardship. Perhaps he wasn't as well-read as some fanciful dignitaries or lordlings, but the rigorous training instilled in him served sufficient cause.

The first book he'd read had been the Chant of Light, eagerly poring over the vellum and committing the words to memory by sheer will and determination. He had just joined the Templars, and had sat in his new bedchambers with a fat candlestick and shining eyes to commemorate his initiation. Then, afterwards, he had sworn his faith with courage, honour, and loyalty, standing in the rainbow-filled light of the chantry as Revered Mother Anora sang praises from the hymnals.

"Ser?" The soldier insisted, looking incredibly uncomfortable as each moment passed. He had fine dark eyes and a mop of auburn curls. Dressed in a pothelm and pine-green cloak, his hands were scarred and calloused from wielding a pitchfork as he fidgeted beneath the Commander's scrutinising gaze.

"What do they call you?" Cullen asked, his voice softening when the boy startled from surprise.

"I—Marden, ser." The youth licked his lips, seemingly incredulous that a superior deigned to speak with him so openly. "Everyone calls me Mar," he added, nodding vigorously. The dented helmet slipped over his eyes, forcing him to tilt his head backwards at an awkward, comical angle.

"I see," Cullen replied. "Tell me, how long have you been with the Inquisition?"

Marden's face flashed with excitement. He barely managed to suppress a grin which claimed his animated features. "Since Haven," he stated proudly, thumping his chest and forgetting his hesitance. "I saw the Herald face down that monster, ser. I . . . I was only a pilgrim. Decided if a knife-ear could lead us, then I could join and help the cause. People say that the Maker blessed her, an—and I believe it."

Cullen gave a thoughtful frown. "Is that what you think of her?" he asked quietly. "A knife-ear?" The accursed word was being used far too often for his liking. No one would respect the Inquisition if they always denounced the Herald with racial slurs. She bore it stoically, as she did all things, but it was insulting nonetheless.

He would have to speak with his men.

Marden gaped at him. "Oh, I—I beg your pardon, Commander," he stuttered. "I hadn't meant it in a bad way, I promise. I w-won't say it again. I just thought . . . dunno. Won't happen again."

"See that you don't." Cullen swept by him, firmly closing the door as he descended the battlements at an unhurried pace. His leather boots crunched against fresh, sparkling snowdrifts as he passed the stables. A bracing gust stirred his cloak and ruffled his hair into an unkempt mess.

The trees rustled like whispering phantoms as he sidestepped a half-frozen puddle. A smile crept onto his rugged face as he heard the screams of delighted children coming from the kennels. There was an air of labouring festivity in the stronghold despite the struggling times. For a fleeting moment, you could almost forget that Thedas was coming to an end.

Almost.

An intoxicating smell of roasted chocolate, baked bread, and chicken basted in honey filled his nostrils as he passed the large stone steps leading up to the kitchens. Women with floral aprons and burlap dresses whispered behind their calloused, ruddy hands. Baskets of laundered cotton were balanced on their hips, and flour smudged their homely faces as they tittered like a flock of untamed geese.

 _Women,_ Cullen thought sourly, blushing when the washerwomen cooed at him and giggled. They were confusing, delicate creatures at the best of times and complete villains at the worst. He never knew what to make of them, and so he resolved to pretend that they didn't exist.

The Herald herself was a pretty puzzle. She fascinated yet repulsed him at the same time. He would see small, little things in his regular routine and immediately think of her. But Ellaria was not fragile, nor was she a helpless maiden begging to be plucked from danger. So why did he feel an instinctual, almost overwhelming need to protect her? Perhaps it was because of this that he watched her so carefully despite feeling the wrongness of it.

Cullen wished she hadn't told him the truth. That she hadn't confessed to him so openly in Haven, forcing him to do likewise until he felt vulnerable and naked. It had put him in an uncomfortable position he was rather unused to. He could not have refused her even if she'd made some absurd request to lay his heart bare before them.

It wasn't that he didn't believe her. He did. But he just . . . wished she hadn't spoken. To violate a woman so thoroughly that it left her embittered yet still so naive and afraid struck something deep within Cullen, and it was slowly tormenting him. It made him wonder what her life had been like that she divulged such an intimate secret to a passing stranger. _To me,_ he thought sadly. _And I only showed her a little kindness._

And why him? Why not a woman, or someone who could properly sympathise without feeling the reminiscent traces of injustice towards his fellow brethren for committing such a monstrous crime? Surely it wasn't because she liked him. Cullen didn't think he was imagining the hasty glances she threw his way during their war meetings. It was flattering, but whenever he edged closer to the precipice of intimacy, he would suddenly remember her startling confession and wide lilac eyes, so he withdrew himself in fear of another misstep and grievance to someone that beautiful.

It had been an awful mistake to already feed into forbidden desires. To fantasise. He couldn't repeat them. _Never,_ he told himself. _You can't._ There were ramifications of continuing any rash actions fuelled by inner needs he mightn't be able to control.

He was afraid of hurting her. Of overstepping and adding yet another scar to her slight person. She was damaged enough, and didn't need more nightmares. _I need to be her mentor,_ Cullen chastised. _Nothing else. She deserves someone . . . better. Something more._

He needed to be a stranger. A guardian and nothing else.

That was it, then. He would distance himself as much as possible. The notion itself left him feeling strangely heavy and . . . bereft. Cullen couldn't prevent the budding emotions he was starting to feel, but he could ignore them. He _would_. He would shove them away and regard her only as a . . . a . . .

Maker, this was already harder than he realised. And painful. And impossibly difficult.

"Curly!" Varric waddled up to him with a stolid, uneven gait. A quill was tucked behind his misshapen ear. "Heard you get to judge someone today." The green-eyed author stared at him with a lopsided grin.

Cullen sighed at the nickname, though a resigned smile was upon his lips at the blessed distraction. "I thought you were with the Herald," he replied, giving the dwarf a long-suffering, if not wry, look.

Varric snorted, chortling in amusement. "And miss this?" he asked, shaking his head and making a grand gesture. Strands of amber-coloured hair fell into his face, and fresh ink stained his wrists and stodgy fingers. "Perish the thought."

"I'm glad someone finds it worthwhile." Cullen had decided it was a waste of time, but the prisoner was squandering vast amounts of precious resources and the Herald wasn't expected back for weeks. Neither Leliana or Josephine were willing to sully their hands, so the thankless task fell to him.

It left a bad taste in his mouth as he spurred his steps towards his destination.

The throne room was bustling with activity, courtiers milling about the erected galleries and whispering behind lace fans and embroidered petticoats. Cullen grimaced at the unwelcome sight. He had not expected such a large audience. _Don't they have better things to do?_ he thought, watching with disgust as they simpered and laughed. Their vogue accents fluttered through the perfumed air with a perverse delicateness as they swished this way and that.

Torches guttered in their silver-flecked sconces as he slipped through a narrow passageway, reluctantly stepping out into the main hall past woven tapestries and suits of polished armour. Fluted sandstone columns momentarily obscured his view as he cleared his throat, ignoring the aimless gossip and pointed looks; the endless rustling of silk and exchange of bent letters.

He could not doubt himself now. He was the Commander of the Inquisition's forces. _Josephine is far worse than all of them combined,_ Cullen thought, squashing any apprehension he felt.

The empty throne perched above in a foreboding, silent splendour, nestled close to the floor-to-ceiling stained windows that depicted vulgar hunting scenes and local fauna. Shadows were casted over it, waiting patiently for the next sentence to pass on the damned.

It was an uncomfortable chair overall. He knew that Ellaria hated the grand austere, demanding something more simpler and suited to her taste. Josephine had refused her. It had been insisted upon that visiting nobles and dignitaries needed to be impressed by their growing might and cause, and that wouldn't happen if the Inquisitor made decisions while sitting on a curved bench.

And—in rebellion, he quite suspected—the Herald would always sprawl herself onto the large seat in the most unladylike fashion when required, draping her legs over the side in a graceless, perfunctory pose. The first time Ellaria had done such a thing, the ambassador's comely face turned a violent shade of red during the middle of court. Cullen had practically seen her swallow the ear-blistering retort she was about to give before curtseying ever so slightly in deference and making a polite excuse.

In all actuality, he was just surprised that the Herald even accepted the grim responsibility of judgement, as it was a heavy burden you couldn't easily dismiss. He knew that from experience. But lately she seemed rather quiet—well, quieter than usual. Cullen hoped she wasn't feeling overwhelmed, but she was eating much, much less, and rarely talked nowadays. Instead of arguing with Josephine over opinions about currying favour, she just accepted everything without pause or reflection. It was as if she was . . . resigned to her fate. It was worrisome, and he began to fear she felt inadequate to the gruelling tasks they gave her. Maker but did she try to please them.

 _She doesn't know._ Of course she didn't. Their plan to ingratiate her as Inquisitor was a slow, taxing process. She would need reading lessons and court etiquette before either Orlais or Ferelden accepted her, and there was never time for frivolous things when people were starving or fleeing from their homes in terror.

He didn't discredit her illiteracy. He rather admired her tenacity and stubbornness of will. No, wait—he couldn't do that anymore. _No more compliments,_ Cullen scolded. He couldn't even look at her when she returned. No. That was stupid and extreme. He had to look at her. Just not . . . _look look_ at her. Not like that. He was her Commander.

Maker, he was acting like a prepubescent boy who'd never been with someone before. He needed to sort out his jumbled thoughts before they betrayed him and caused a scandal. He drew in a sharp intake of breath as he collected his countenance into a neutral expression.

Cullen climbed the steps to the throne before drawing his shortsword in a wave of flashing metal. Ignoring the murmurs, he laid it across his knees when he sat as an unspoken threat. The naked steel rippled in the cool darkness like shifting ice. It comforted him greatly as the blush clinging to his face finally faded.

Josephine approached him sedately, a smile gracing her lips. "Whenever you are ready," she announced primly, "and we will begin the trial." Garbed in a long flowing gown with glistening rubies and cream gloves, she looked the epitome of a beautiful woman. Perfume clung to her, and her hair was braided into thick, looping coils.

Cullen took another breath, maintaining his nerves. He had served through countless Harrowings and battles, and had seen death and consequence firsthand. He could handle this with confidence.

He gave the signal.

Four guards entered the room. They each carried a winding chain attached to what looked like a monstrous beast, but, as it drew closer from the shadows, Cullen saw instead that it was a man. An intense humming swept through the crowd. One woman gasped, and another swooned from complete shock.

"This was a . . . surprise," Josephine said. She clutched her reports a little tighter, shaking her head. "After the Herald of Andraste's return from the bogs, we discovered this man attacking the building. With a . . . _goat_. Chief Movran the Under. He feels slighted by the killing of his Avvar tribesmen, who—repeatedly, I might add—attacked the Herald first and imprisoned Inquisition soldiers as bait."

Silence filled the room after her breathy exclamation. Cullen leaned forwards, studying the massive prisoner with a grim look. He had to weigh at least twelve stone, he surmised, dressed in corded ropes and animal hides. An antlered helmet sat on his flat-topped head, and a thick, black beard reached his muscled waist. Only a small loincloth covered his extremities as fur boots warmed his feet.

Josephine coughed, giving Cullen a tight-lipped smile. She clicked her heels together, and the noise reverberated off the stony walls like a cacophony of drums. "What should we do with him?" she asked. "Where should he . . . go?"

Cullen rubbed his temples with a grimace. He could already feel the headache looming behind his eyes. "You're a chieftain of the Avvar," he said bluntly. "Will your attacks persist?" There was no need to mince words, not with him. He was no damsel that couldn't bear the brunt of truth.

Unbidden, his thoughts once again leapt to Ellaria. He felt his cheeks grow warm despite himself, and until now he wasn't conscious of so many scrutinising looks that a large court afforded. Cullen swallowed, desperately trying to maintain his composure.

Movran laughed, unimpressed. His voice sounded deep and deadly, and the sound alone was disquieting enough to make another noble faint. "A courtroom?" he barked, giving a contemptuous snort. "Unnecessary. As is your judging of me. _Dog_. Is the Herald so indisposed that she cannot see me?"

Cullen bristled at that. "She is not here, nor is her presence needed to condemn you." Anger took the precedence of his whirling emotions as he spoke in a commanding, authoritative voice. He relished the fleeting iota of power it granted him when the court hummed in approval and excitement.

"Hmm." Movran tilted his head, a curious glint reflecting his eyes. "Then you are the leftovers? Fitting, I must think." The chieftain stomped his feet. "Your precious Herald murdered my idiot son, and I answered as is the custom by smacking your holdfast with goat's blood."

"Don't look at me," Josephine said, shaking her head adamantly when Cullen frowned.

Movran grinned, exposing horse-like teeth. "No foul," he rumbled. A dark amusement was laced in his tone. "My son meant to murder Tevinters, but got feisty with your Inquisition instead. A redheaded mother guarantees a brat." He lifted his hands in a supplicating gesture. "Do as you see fit. My clan yields. My remaining boys still have brains attached to their heads."

A pensive frown crossed Cullen's face as his eyes darkened with thought. He had seldom felt so alone when making decisions, although it was simple enough. He gripped the shortsword more firmly, repressing a bitter sigh.

Perhaps kings and lordlings would put the Avvar to death, or exploit the chieftain's humiliation in a way to earn a measure of goodwill from the smallfolk. The Avvar had always been feared for their fierceness in battle, and to have them willingly submit to punishment from lowlander authorities was unheard of. To show them as helpless beneath the Inquisition's heel would vastly increase their expanse of power.

A good thing, then, that he was far from kingly.

At this moment, Cullen didn't recognise his voice when he spoke. "It seems the conflict was accidental, Chief Movran, but it cannot be repeated. I banish you and your clan with as many weapons you can carry. To Tevinter."

The sound that arose from the crowd was both near deafening and instantaneous. Shouts of outrage and shock erupted across the courtroom. "You can't do that!" a noble spluttered, his face turning an abrupt shade of beet-red. The insignia on his starched robes were that of Minrathous. A pot-helmed sentry restrained him with a cloaked halberd as servants in colourful livery whisked to and fro with silver platters. They carried refreshments, and, in some cases, their lords and ladies out through the doors.

 _I just did,_ Cullen thought, smiling fearlessly despite his growing uneasiness.

Josephine looked alarmed. His eyes found hers in the midst of the uprising, and he nodded. She relaxed somewhat, clearing her throat and calling for order as more soldiers entered the room. Their booted feet rang sharply against the stone and echoed off the smoke-stained rafters.

However, it was quite some time before the absurdness of the court was quieted to some degree of normalcy. Low, electrified murmurs shoved past the lacy collars and tilted hats in endless waves as spluttering guests were escorted off the grounds and told to pack their things. Cullen wondered how many letters of reprimand and denouncement the Inquisition would get for this little stunt.

Going by the ambassador's blanched expression, far too many. He thanked the Maker for small mercies; that the Herald was in the Dales at the moment, blissfully unaware of what had just occurred. Cullen bore no doubt that had she made the decision instead, the chaos would have been tenfold. Her titles carried too much weight to make rash actions based on half-grown ideas.

The same could be said for him, the Commander supposed. Still. He refused to go back on his decision, and he meant to stick with it. It would, at least, give the nobles something exciting to talk about for another three months, though it held but mean satisfaction.

"My idiot boy got us something after all." Movran's booming voice stifled the roiling atmosphere as he drew the remaining attention to his shadowed figure. An amused, contemptuous look briefly flitted across his broad face as he glanced at the gathered crowd.

"There is always the gibbet," Cullen offered coldly. He slouched against the throne, disregarding how uncomfortable it was.

"Gibbet? Ha." Movran spat. Great clouds of steam rushed from his mouth as he nodded. "I accept your offer of exile, dog. Will the Herald be as pleased, I wonder? Is she not your leader?"

Cullen went rigid. He gripped the hilt of his shortsword even tighter until his knuckles were bone-white as he said, "More than you know." More than she knew as well.

He needed to stop thinking about her.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** _I am so, so sorry for my absence. I certainly hadn't planned it, but life got in the way with personal troubles, and this got pushed back. I am here now, though, so things shouldn't be so long before another update happens. This story is most definitely not abandoned._

* * *

"Sumthin' brushed against me!" Sera shrieked, her almond-shaped eyes glazing over with fear. "It had tentacles, an—and _teeth_."

Cassandra neatly sidestepped a bough of blooming rashvine. "Are you sure it wasn't your imagination?" she queried, fighting an amused smile and failing rather miserably.

Sera spared her a reproachful look full of misgivings. "I'm sure," she retorted snidely. "I'm pretty bloody sure, actu'lly. This piss-poor water has beasties. Imma get eaten, and Inky doesn't care." She slapped the waist-deep water for emphasis, scowling to herself and muttering darkly beneath her breath.

"Inky?" Cassandra asked. An uncomfortable grimace struck her tanned features from the oppressive heat and stinking, sulphurous swamps which surrounded them. The acidic pits belched forth huge dissipating clouds of roiling steam and bubbled constantly like a simmering cauldron, making the place a living hellhole.

And it was almost hot enough to cook you alive, were it not for the cooling potions which Solas had brewed in advance as a forethought. The bitter tang of salt still lingered on their collective lips from the concoction, and the elfin mage now sported a large black eye when he had entered a disagreement with Sera about the instructions.

The aforementioned rogue gave a contemptuous snort and rolled her eyes. "Herald. Wha'ever. She's got, you _know_ ," the rogue motioned to her moon-shaped face with a frayed glove, "stupid inky stuff. Elfy elf business."

"Oh," Cassandra replied. "I . . . I see."

Ellaria coughed to hide her laughter, brushing aside her loose hair and smiling at the faint conversation that was being carried behind her back. She walked ahead with Solas, matching his stately, serene pace and shamelessly eavesdropping on her bickering companions with a happiness she hadn't felt in a long, long while.

She had settled into a good routine with them, and it was comforting to hear them talk like a gaggle of fledgling geese. It was . . . normalising. Not to mention the equality which they treated her to whenever she was amongst their camaraderie. It gave her a newfound confidence as she began to discover the unparalleled joys of friendship.

"We are almost there," Solas said quietly, glancing at her appraisingly when she gained a sudden interest in the atmosphere. There was warmth in his ice-blue eyes as he watched her stare at the war-torn surroundings, oblivious to the water drenching their clothes and the foreign humidity cloaking their presence with its diaphanous folds.

The Dales were steeped in conflict and war. Even a simpleton could see that. Trees had been blackened into ugly stumps, villages had been razed, and the countryside was destroyed with its plentiful bean fields and glassy, mirror-like lakes. Yet there was a fragile handsomeness to it, something that couldn't be erased despite the latest attempts and stench of battle.

Ellaria marvelled at the remaining beauty as a smile flitted across her face. There were glistening streams with trout and dace, ancient ruins, picturesque bluffs, crumbling arches and forgotten statues. Solas had even pointed out the remnants of a massive colosseum as purple light flooded the downtrodden land into a swollen sunset.

She loved nature. The mossy woods and plains had always appealed to her even when it forsook others and held a cold, mocking comfort in its breast. It called to some primal part of her mind, where she felt wild and free and unhindered. Something ancient stirred within her as she basked in the afternoon sunlight, flickering to life from betwixt the ashes of her soul.

"So many wolves," Ellaria said. She ran reverent fingers across the rump of a stone animal, its elegant likeness etched in a fine silver-flecked granite as it stared into the distance with a faraway look. "They're everywhere."

"They were thought of as protectors," Solas explained, smiling faintly when she coloured at his searching gaze. "They would keep their masters safe from harm, and defend what was right and good." He folded lanky hands behind his back and whetted his lips as a knowledgable eagerness gleamed in his stern expression.

"Then why was Fen'Harel depicted as one?" Ellaria asked, tilting her head backwards to watch the thin clouds which stretched above them in passing wisps. The traitorous god had made her life quite difficult under false pretences from her superstitious clan, and though she was loathe to speak of the Dread Wolf and his apparent misfortune, her curiosity overcame any apprehension clinging to the old legends.

It was . . . it was time to move on, she thought, and the fact that she could now face her fears and perhaps start over with the Inquisition was riveting. Many had already died, but she could atone for that and make up for the foolishness committed. Ellaria reached this pivotal point where realisations became groundbreaking thoughts, and empowerment was more than just a mere word. She became drunk with the idea, influenced by the soft breeze and wooded countryside. She was a symbol, and her past didn't have to define her anymore. No one knew of it at all except for—for . . .

Shit.

Solas stiffened, his voice becoming soft and distant as he startled her from her reveries. "Perhaps because he was one of them. We cannot be sure." Then, with a clearer mien, he added, "I thank you, Herald, for bringing me here to search for my friend. It was very generous of you." His reserved, careful manner made it clear that the previous subject wasn't open for discussion.

"Of course," Ellaria replied, masking her disappointment with a lopsided grin. "As long as you'll put up with my terrible company." She found his abrupt change in behaviour strange, but refused to comment. Perhaps there were instances of the past he disliked to dredge up, or he had experienced unpleasant memories in the Fade regarding wolves. Either way, she could not blame him.

This time his smile was genuine and light-hearted, if not a little relieved. "I would verily oblige."

They were interrupted from their dialogue by an ear-piercing screech as Cassandra stumbled clumsily against Sera, sending the rogue tumbling face-first into the brackish water.

"Pwoah!"

The moment broken, Ellaria had to restrain the pair of them from committing violent murder by promising to make camp soon. The tenure held, though barely, and they rested that evening beneath the stars, dining on thin oatmeal cakes and raspberry cordial. The warm air was fragrant with scents of heady lavender, sweet-briar and fresh primroses, and the velvety sky reflected a thousand pinpricks which decorated the wide, sweeping expanses and grassy hillocks.

Drawing the short straw, Ellaria fetched firewood as an overhang sheltered them from the brisk wind. There was plenty of kindling to be found underfoot, and it had taken less than ten minutes' time of gathering to procure a decent pile to easily last the night.

It was there that she found a silver necklace amidst the rubble of a summer cottage. The metal was tarnished and dull, yet she could still see her broken reflection in the dwindling twilight. Ellaria pocketed it after a brief moment of hesitation, having never owned anything half so fine in her entire life.

 _I'll put it to good use,_ she thought, dismissing the hungering guilt which she felt in the pit of her stomach like a plague. Ellaria quickly consoled herself with the fact that it wouldn't be missed by its previous owners anymore, and she was doing something charitable by means of taking it away from some looters. Instead, she decided to add it to her growing collection of trinkets that she harboured in her quarters at Skyhold. At the very least, it would see the sunlight there and be treasured, as its purpose was intended.

Soon enough the fire was blazing merrily when she returned, and the infringing gloom dispersed into vague shadows that edged around the camp. Cassandra devoted herself to a leather-bound book, wholly invested in its written contents with an oblivious, almost blissful look dawning on her face.

Solas became withdrawn, disinterested in their smalltalk and pacing restlessly near the edges of the camp. He listened to them as little as possible, endeavouring with a conscientious manner to remove himself from them as an earnest look arrested his plain features. Ellaria pitied him, as they couldn't reach his spirit-friend until tomorrow. And, sometimes, time made all the difference.

She knew that the hard way.

Sera munched on some bread dipped in plum sauce, humming tunelessly and doodling by the firelight with wax pencils. The flames burnished her strawberry-blonde hair and gave her an otherworldly look. Dressed in plaid breeches and boots dyed an alarming shade of crimson, she certainly fit the description of a swashbuckling pirate gone wrong.

The scaly armour she wore moulded to her bony figure like an enchantment was unwillingly thrust upon it; and the material was overlapped with multiple patterns of leather straps, pilfered buckles, and a dusky cuirass to match. As an addendum, wicked-looking knives were strapped at her waist, their jewel-encrusted hilts glimmering dully with the promise of fresh bloodshed and mischief.

A devilish, knowing smirk sparkled Sera's shining blue eyes, and more than once she snuck slantwise glances at the others with a quiet snicker. She was a motley and dangerous figure overall, prone to foolish jokes and pranks without any remorse or guilt clouding her conscious. A dangerous combination, Blackwall had commented before they set out from the stables.

 _And he's right,_ Ellaria thought, watching her suspiciously with a narrowed gaze. _She's_ _planning something._ When nothing happened, however, she returned to map-making with tense shoulders and an expectant nature.

Though she couldn't read nor write properly, Ellaria was fairly decent with drawing and directions. An innate sense captured her, and, thusly, being cartographer was left to her own interests. She enjoyed drawing the little trees and mountains. It distracted her from the fact that Sera was plotting something nefarious. And likely terrible. That stupid rogue could be absolutely horrid beyond reconciliation whenever she wanted.

Which was more than she was allowed to admit.

When Ellaria first met the elfin rogue, she had thought it to be a silly prank. At least, until a fletched arrow pierced the throat of a screaming noble. Then the Herald had decided her to be insane, as she was unable to comprehend Sera's rambling speeches and fits of unwarranted giggles. Still, she was useful in more ways than one with her vital connections, and Ellaria was finally becoming accustomed to her heedless fashion about everything in the universe.

Slowly.

"Stop, everyone look away!" Sera declared. "I need to pee."

"Oh, by the—" Solas snapped, glaring at her with an acidic look.

"Whot? We're all women." Sera began to unlace her leather breeches near the roaring bonfire. "Well, of a sort," she sneered cheekily, prancing away from the mage and his threatening, irritated stance. "You got sumthin' to confess?"

Cassandra merely snorted in disgust and ignored them to the best of her abilities. "Idiots," she mumbled, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. Ellaria noticed that her knuckles had gone bone-white from exertion, and she suddenly feared that the book would be torn into halves.

"Fenhedis," Solas retorted. He leaned against a rocky wall and turned his gaze upon Ellaria, as if entreating her for assistance in his cause. When she could only call upon gave a weak smile, his scowl grew fearsome instead. She would have laughed at its comicality were it not for the seriousness brewing in his clouded stare.

But Sera did, giggling loudly and without restraint as she wiggled her naked backside and squatted mannishly beside a group of pebbles. "I just want you all to see my hairy arse. Good, yeah?" She looked at them from between her spindly legs and gave a wicked grin.

"Stop it," the Herald warned, though her bell-like voice lacked any venom. She blushed at the vagrant display and tried to summon her harshest frown. Failing that as well, she casted her eyes aside from embarrassment and stared at her delicate hands as a result. They were smudged black with charcoal, and anything she touched left a fine settling powder behind. She would need to wash them with soap.

Soap was good. They had soap. It smelled piney and made her skin itch, but all the better, Ellaria thought. It would distract her from present company and their . . . unseemly antics.

"Oh, I'm sorry my Lady Royalness," Sera teased, relacing her britches as she finished her business. "You only have eyes for one arse. Does Cully-Wully style the hair between his bits, too?" She snickered when Ellaria's cheeks flushed deeply, her fair face turning a dark scarlet that bordered on scandalous.

"This is ridiculous." Solas snapped angrily. He gave them one final, sweeping glare before disappearing into the rugged landscape with a swish of his robes. Ellaria stared after him with longing, powerless to leave.

"Y'know, when I first heard you want t'go nuttin' on Commander Jackboot, I thought you was crazy," Sera said, continuing her merciless tirade. "But I'm sure he's got some nice things. Places. Not my thing. But I've heard he's got bi—"

" _What_ are you going on about?" Cassandra demanded, finally closing her book with a sharp thud. "And where is Solas?" Confusion was momentarily written on her face, just as quickly replaced with annoyance and more than a smidgen of hesitance at Sera's gleeful smile.

"H-he left," Ellaria stammered, her face growing even more beet-red. ". . . somewhere. . . nice. . ." She gestured vaguely before staring at the ground again, suddenly finding it very, very interesting.

She wished it would swallow her whole.

"Alone?" Cassandra's authoritative voice held a rich note of disbelief in it, and her dark brown eyes narrowed in a tell-tale suspicion.

"Sera was making him upset," Ellaria replied quietly.

"Pffffft. That's just some excuse." Sera cackled like a witch and plopped onto her ample backside. "He prob'ly wants to get acquainted with Mr. Hand. Can't do that stuff in front of women. Y'know."

"Sera!"

"Wot? Oh, fine. He on'y does it with spirits." Sera shuddered. "Ugh."

Ellaria swallowed. "I should—I should join him. For the fresh air," she added hastily, scrambling upright and directing a flustered glance at the rogue. "I should go outside." She nodded firmly. "It's nice."

"Herald," Cassandra said, giving her a strange look. "We are already outside."

"Oh, right."

Sera laughed. "She's all flummety flummoxed. Didn't think you had it _that_ bad. I mean, really."

"She has what?" Cassandra demanded, irritated. "I don't understand." She carefully put her book inside a weathered satchel before fetching her double-edged shortsword and an oilstone.

"Inky wants to lick Culler's lamppost." The matter-of-fact way she said it made Ellaria's blood curdle. She cringed and glared at the ground with a fierceness that would have made lesser things evaporate into a fine mist.

Cassandra scowled. "I do not know what that means," she threatened. "Stop speaking nonsense and speak plainly."

"Wh—are you joking?" Sera burst into delighted, raunchy titters, clutching her stomach and kicking her booted feet into the air. "Oh, this is great. Abso-bloody-lutely rich."

Understanding finally dawned on Cassandra's face as the conversation took an even more lewd turn. "You mean to say. . ." She gaped at the both of them, stilling in her movements as an indescribable shock glittered in her hazelnut eyes.

Sera smirked. "Oh, she's got it— _bad_. Ever see how she stares at him? She definitely wants him to bang. I bet—I bet he wants it, too. I bet they go'n do it on his desk, and she's on top. Because positions. It'll be better that way. 'Specially in Varric's book when he goes and writes it." She nodded in assurance and noisily smacked her lips.

Cassandra seemed displeased, a disgruntled and slightly alarmed look slowly unfolding onto her face as Sera kept giving more and more lucrative details into the imagined affair with gusto.

Ellaria, completely mortified, fled the scene with alacrity and more than a little bruised pride. The bracing wind buffeted her silver-blonde hair and scoured the blush from her cheeks as she walked from the scene with quick steps. She took a harsh breath, allowing herself to forget the embarrassing exchange.

The fact alone that Sera knew of her growing admiration for the Commander was too disturbing, and it left her feeling ashamed that such a thing even existed. Yet, try as she might, Ellaria couldn't extinguish her partiality towards him, albeit her chances of felicity were near hopeless.

He was just so . . . so patient. And kind. And handsome for a human. And when he smiled she got butterflies that made her forget, just for a few heartbeats, that men could be cruel.

But he knew too much about her, and she had had this same argument with herself far too many times to debate any fresher points. The Commander would not denounce his reputation with a knife-ear. And she already had nagging doubts that he was growing suspicious of her tender feelings. Which was beyond mortifying since she could not change them.

She found Solas staring out across a wide expanse of grassy meadow. The soft, yellow moonlight silhouetted his slender form and polished the purple-and-gold robes he wore. A leather collar was studded with earthen metals and wrapped around his neck, framing his bald scalp as he leaned against a gnarled staff with a wearied gaze. She decided that he cut a noble figure against the sky's dark outline.

The plains were silent and misty beyond the monotonous chirping of crickets and the swelling of the lakes as starlight glimmered on the softly churning ripples. The pungent smell of fish and wet moss filled the ripe air, dispelling a thick, choking fragrance that penetrated the heady gloom. She tilted her head, listening as a whippoorwill began its nightly serenade.

A solemn avenue of stone sepulchres dotted the flowering hillocks, entombing the rotted remains of fallen warriors and their mounts. They held a morose beauty, she thought, standing in endless, uniform rows which depicted the savagery of battle. And in the end, only death reigned the victor.

She knew that the hard way as well.

Ellaria watched as Solas slowly moved towards a little copse of swaying willows. She followed his large footsteps with hesitance, the waist-high grass tickling her bare arms and freckled chin.

He would stop, then continue, then stop again as he studied the graves with a strange expression. She assumed that he was reading the ancient engravings carved onto the crumbling limestone. Ellaria couldn't make sense of them, but found the crude paintings beautiful, if not somewhat depressing and saturnine.

The Elvhen people had made those, many ancient centuries ago. It was her heritage, despite the fact that she'd been casted aside from it due to an ignorant fear. The exotic swirls and crudely dancing halla might have ignited something akin to excitement within her breast were she not outlawed even from her own clan.

As it was, all that Ellaria felt was sadness from so much death and mutilation, both from herself and the innumerable burials which depicted her own lack of something substantial to cling to.

When she approached Solas, he plucked a sprig of lavender, admiring the crystallised blooms before turning to face her with a serene look on his polished countenance. Were it not for the slight furrow in his smooth brow, she would have thought him content.

"May I?" Solas asked, his previous anger having vanished into a calm serenity.

She nodded wordlessly, and just as silent, he braided the flower into her curling strands of hair. Ellaria shivered at the gentle sensation, bending her head downwards to allow him better access. The touch and gesture were foreign, but hardly unwelcome.

Solas watched her reaction. " _Beautiful_ ," he said in their native tongue. His calm voice was strangled with emotion as a darkness flickered in his eyes. He coughed, his agitated features quickly resuming their carven state as he pointedly turned away.

Ellaria flushed at the compliment, her ears tilting forwards in a pleased gesture. "We'll save your friend," she said hurriedly, eager to dispel the sudden awkwardness growing between them. "I promise. We will . . . we'll save him because—because you're my friend. I trust you with this."

Solas' mouth curved upwards into a sad smile as he stared at the snow-topped mountains looming before them. "I thank you, Herald," he replied. "You are very considerate."

Ellaria returned his expression with an uncertain one of her own. "Of course."

Solas nodded, clasped his long hands together around his wooden stave in a tight embrace. He began to move about gracefully, waiting for her to follow until the both of them reached a small pebbled bank by the river.

Spindleweed and elfroot were plentiful there, flourishing in the warm climes and rich swampy soil. At a gesture, the herbs were gathered in silence as the mage seemed lost in thought.

"Solas," Ellaria finally said, watching as he blinked rapidly and inclined his head towards her.

"Yes, da'len?"

Ellaria swallowed, asking, "Isn't the Veil thin here?" Though she was far from being a regular mage, her Mark drew her closer to the demonic and great unknown until it remained, there at the back of her senses. It was something intangible that make her skin shudder with a ghost-like itch.

"It is," he said in agreement, kneeling amongst the mud and bulrushes without giving an apparent fig for his stained wormwood sandals.

"And. . ." Ellaria hesitated, nervous to speak her mind without reproach. It was still a brand-new feeling which she kept experiencing, and oftentimes forgot.

"Yes, da'len?" he prompted, not unkindly. "You may converse what you wish. There are no barriers here."

 _He is my friend._ Ellaria regained her voice at his unwavering composure. "You don't think your spirit-thing is dead, do you?" At his perplexed look she began to babble and stutter, afraid that she had somehow offended him with the blunt question. "You kept saying possession was likely, and that demons were—are, I mean—everywhere. Here. At . . . at this place."

"Yes," he said softly, his eyes becoming large with sadness. "There are many demons here." Ellaria had never seen him look so vulnerable and unguarded before, though the fleeting expression was gone so quickly that she began to doubt its very existence.

Solas took a deep breath and dug his fingers into the muddy earth with a sudden plunge. He gently untangled the roots of a withered plant, its white tendrils hanging onto the last clumps of dirt with a wispy determination. "Let us hope," he continued, "that it is only an irreverent, childish fear."

 **O-~O-~O**

It wasn't.

Creators, but the whole thing had turned into a violent, bloody mess.

The spirit had been mutilated beyond recognition. It was like the one she'd firstly encountered in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but seemingly more malignant. It now stood proud in corruptness, its large purple horns curling up to scratch against the afternoon sky.

 _It looks like a wingless dragon,_ Ellaria thought, staring at its scaled body and massive claws with trepidation. Its white-flecked eyes seemed soulless as it glared at its rocky surroundings with hatred and malice. There was an awareness to its gaze that the other demon had lacked, she realised. And it was something to send involuntary chills down her spine.

"No," Solas breathed, nearly collapsing to his knees from weakness. "My friend." His angular face was drained and bloodless as he crouched near the tall grass. It reminded her of a wounded predator perceiving its final mistakes.

"We have to kill it," Cassandra observed coolly as she unsheathed her sword. The steel glinted harshly in the buttery sunlight, flashing back and forth like a cleansing beacon. It added to the sunlight which crowned her dark-brown hair as an aura, setting her whole figure aflame in a proverbial righteousness.

A tinge of red brought more than a blush of anger into Solas' face. "Don't," he snapped feverishly. "You can't. I won't let you." He stood and faced her with a sudden vivacity borne out of desperation.

"It is a demon," Cassandra retorted obstinately, giving him a fierce scowl. "You would let it harm innocents? It is not what it once was." She jabbed a gloved hand at the monstrosity wandering around, her chainmail jingling with the abrupt gesture. "Look at it," she insisted. "You surely cannot be so blind."

"It is my _friend_. We must try something else."

Sera spat and rubbed her mouth. "We gotta kill it," she opined, sitting tensely on a rocky perch above them. "It don't belong here anyways." Her face was taut and pulled back to showcase the concern wrinkling around her forehead.

"No! No, I—I can help it," Solas said, his eyes betraying him as panicked. "You must believe me. We can save it."

Ellaria stared at the monster, distantly aware of their conversation. She leaned against one of her legs for support as she gazed out across the grassy swathe where the demon prowled.

Cassandra crossed her arms. "I will not let that thing hurt more civilians."

"And I won't let you kill my friend!"

The Herald took a deep breath. Her lips were slightly parted as a fresh breeze ruffled her hair and dispelled the stifling atmosphere. She vaguely listened to the debate, until, when the argument became inevitably impassioned, she glanced over her shoulder in annoyance.

"How?" Ellaria asked, interrupting the argument. She confronted each of them with a softened gaze, the simple word seeming to confound her companions, for they merely stared back at her in a sudden silence.

"How?" she repeated, this time more briskly. "How could we save the monster?" Ellaria clambered off her roost and glanced at Solas, patiently waiting for an answer.

She knew almost nothing about spirits and the Fade, but the dangers of letting a doam freely were hefty implications towards the Inquisition's mindset. Such a decision weighed heavily upon her, and she felt the opposing factions now more than ever as they tore her apart with heated squabbles and differing beliefs.

Solas was beyond relieved as he hastily formulated a plan, breathless with anticipation and anxious to be heard. He began to outline his idea in the soft earth, using pebbles and sticks as vantage points. When he reached the final conclusion, Cassandra proclaimed it to be dangerous, and they dissolved back into feuding.

"We do not have much time," Solas added, his voice rich with finality, "but the summoning pillars will work. Of that I am sure." His bald head shone with perspiration as they all quieted down and looked at her for the verdict.

 _Why me?_ Ellaria thought, staring at the crisscrossed formations that he'd drawn in the dirt. But that was a stupid question, she chastised. It had always been her. She was the Herald of Andraste, and this was her duty. Her obligation. This was just the first time something of a personal nature which needed to be dealt with.

And it was hard.

Ellaria bit her lip until she tasted blood, feeling quite unfit for leadership as she stared at her hand. "We will go with Solas' idea," she said, hoping that it was the best decision to make. The mage dipped his head in gratitude as she blinked against the afternoon sunlight. "I trust you with this."

Sera started to protest with a whine, but was silenced by Cassandra. "She is the Herald," the warrior stated brusquely. "Her will must be done." The resuming stillness of noise expressed what her speech did not, telling them more with her quietude than a thousand harsh words.

Sera snorted, looking rather unconvinced. "We're all gonna die."

Ellaria swallowed and ignored the others as the weight of her decision set in with a sharp certitude. She took a small moment to breathe, knowing fully well that Cassandra's report would be more than colourful when they returned to Skyhold. There was little to be undone, however, as she watched her party prepare themselves for the battle ahead.

The Herald had already drawn her daggers. She fought the nerves wiggling around in her stomach like butterflies, and reiterated the plan over and over again in her mind as a mantra for comfort. Solas weaved barriers above them with a shimmering wave, carefully threading the bluish-grey gossamers into their armour for protection. She felt the surge of powerful mana push against her hand, resisting for only a moment before the enchantments gave way to the funnel-like force of the Fade.

 _I trust you with this_. Ellaria clicked runes into the twining hilts of her blades and downed a stealth potion. She grimaced at the taste and toed the torn earth with a booted foot, limbering her muscles into an easy, repeatable swing as she glanced upwards at the rayless hues of the burning sun.

She was good at combat. Even her old clan had respected her abilities, albeit reluctantly. She hadn't been allowed to hunt with them except at a distance, but the unexplained acknowledgment had been a lifeline when she was younger. Most of it had been self-taught, and she had the scars to prove it.

She would never be defenceless again.

The demon roared when they approached in a loose formation, and it lashed out with an electrical whip as a response. Ellaria could feel the artificial heat it carried even from where she stood. She easily dodged its lumbering attack as the distance was closed between them and the group scattered. She quickly slid beneath its stocky legs towards the first pillar in a showering of dust and pebbles.

The pillar was made from a strange glittering rock and imbued with blood-writing. Ellaria shivered at the feeling of energetic malice it exuded in invisible waves. Thankfully, it crumbled quite easily beneath her fingertips and was no match for her twin dirks.

 _Twwaang._

Ellaria cursed as she felt an arrowhead clip her forehead before becoming embedded into the demon's thick neck. "Watch it!" she yelled, narrowly avoiding a chunk of falling debris with a clumsy sidestep. The sudden warmth and stickiness trickling down her nose told her that she was bleeding. She scowled, dispatching the second pillar and angrily swiping at her face with the back of her hand.

She was going to kill that rogue.

Sera merely laughed, as if guessing her thoughts, before she flitted between boulders and cartwheeled into a lazy backflip. The rogue tossed a fire potion at the demon and stuck her cherry-red tongue out, then dived forwards at its scream of outrage as a frenzied light glowed in her eyes. For being so indignant earlier at acting the distraction, she seemed ecstatic now in the heat of battle.

 _She must be truly crazy._ Ellaria dodged another arrow, this one poisonous, and moved towards the third obstacle with heavy steps. Cassandra had slammed her shield into it with all the force she could muster, and they both watched it topple to the ground. A heavy silence descended upon their heads for but a millisecond, distracting them with the deliriousness of their completed goal.

Ellaria didn't notice until too late that Solas was shouting something as his face purpled into a strange bloated frenzy. The earth began to shake violently, as it does when precluded by an earthquake. She felt her legs start to tingle as blinding patterns flashed before her eyes. Cassandra shoved her aside when a white, smoky haze filled the air, and they both tumbled to the ground as time seemed to slow into an infinitesimal pace.

Ellaria blinked, a sharp, high-pitched noise hissing through her ears as a rattling explosion sounded off somewhere to her left. A copper taste pooled in her mouth, and she realised belatedly that it was blood as it dribbled past her lips and onto her chin.

 _Sto . . . he—he . . ._ She could not properly organise her thoughts, and whenever she tried to focus her whole mind went askew and the world turned into a spinning outburst of pain.

Ellaria managed to swallow before her vision collapsed into blackness.

 **O-~O-~O**

 _"—I am so sorry. Please, please do not leave me."_

 _"I will always be here, my friend."_

Ellaria coughed, her eyelids flickering as something warm touched her face. Her lungs heaved for air again and again, and panic clawed her throat with a sudden rawness as her muscles screamed in protest whenever she moved. It took a momentous effort just to roll onto her back with a sudden twitch. She groaned painfully and stared up at the cloudless sky, completely breathless.

There was a horrendous feeling in her wrist, and the warmth caressing her skin had turned into a scorching fever which ravaged her bones instead with a numbing fervidness.

 _"Please, please do not—"_

 _"Worry . . . you cannot . . ."_

Voices. She heard voices. Was still hearing them. They sounded both distant and too close all at once. It made goosebumps prickle her bare arms as she fought against the paralysing urge to remain immobile.

 _Stop . . ._ Ellaria thought harshly. She clenched her teeth until they ached something fierce. A sharp throbbing pain echoed in the back of her skull, clinging to the edges of her consciousness and forcing her to keep her violet eyes wide open. _St—stop . . ._

Ellaria blinked again, banishing the blackness which swam before her vision, as she slowly struggled to her feet with all the strength that she could muster. It was an agonising process, and more than once she wanted to just give up and lay back down. Finally, though, she managed to regain her footing as the world shakily realigned itself.

She stood there, glancing around at the carnage left behind with a wariness in her gaze. She stood in a bowl-like scar of torn grass and muddy soil. It looked like a massacre gone wrong. Large boulders which seemed unmovable in normal circumstances were shattered underfoot into fine granite piles, and pools of brackish water shimmered in fresh ditches.

Cassandra laid a few yards to her right, unmoving, and Sera was nowhere to be seen. Ellaria clutched her chest and spat out bloody phlegm with distaste. The fact that she had escaped death did not leave her, though her immediate concerns were fashioned on something far less brutal.

She stared at the lonesome figure crouched near the shore of a lake with glassy eyes before moving towards it with hobbled footsteps, propelled onwards by a foreign purpose unknown to her.

 _"No! Please—please, I am—"_

 _"It is alright. We will meet again."_

 _The voices,_ Ellaria thought. Her footsteps clumsily slowed down into an uncertain halt. _It's the bloody voices._

She watched with unbridled fascination as a greenish-white creature stood upright from its crouched position, detaching itself from the forlorn mage who sat there prone. The shimmering folds of its costume flapped to an unknown breeze as it looked away for a moment in shame.

When their gazes met, as they were inevitably drawn together in such a torn environment, Ellaria was forced to pause at the pair of keen eyes which stared right through her with an awareness not thought possible. She felt strangely naked. Scarred memories rose up in her mind without permission, almost as an automatic response as the spirit looked at the imperfect soul and passed no judgement.

Its eyes were a deep forest-green, the kind that in the current atmosphere seemed ardent and indescribable. They were lovely and forbidding in their own rights, though, with chasings of gold flecked around the irises in a mesmerising circle of shadows and unfathomable depths. Their gazes met again, blinked, and stuttered, until the transparent being suddenly melted away into nothingness.

"Solas?" Ellaria croaked, paralysed. She felt haunted beyond comprehension as her pain returned with a vengeance. "What . . . was that?"

Solas said nothing. He was silent for so long that she began to think him permanently mute. Finally, a strangled laugh escaped his throat. "That was my . . . friend."

"Oh." She sat beside him and winced. "I'm so sorry." Her limbs felt leaden, and there was a heavy dryness in her mouth.

Solas blinked back unshed tears. "The fault was mine. I was—I was too prideful, and so I paid the price. It was my mistake. It was my . . . mistake. She died because of me."

Ellaria shook her head weakly. "It wasn't your fault. It was those stupid mages."

Solas stiffened. "It was, wasn't it," he murmured, his voice overcome with regret. "It was their fault. They killed . . . k-killed . . . " He inhaled a sharp breath. "She was my friend, you know."

"I know." Ellaria fiddled with her hands. "I am sorry." The empty platitudes were near cringe-worthy, although she could offer nothing better.

An uncomfortable silence reigned between them for quite some time. It was apprehensive and uncertain, and Ellaria could see the tenseness resonating between the mage's rigid shoulders.

She flexed her wrist as she waited, and a strangled whimper left her throat at the pain which violently scalded her veins at the movement. She shook her head, a shock of whitish-blonde hair falling into her purple eyes and obscuring the guilty expression which arrested Solas' face.

Ellaria refused to look at him. They had been in far worse battles before, therefore there was no need for him to appear so distraught at her condition.

It might have been the deliriousness speaking, but she could have sworn she heard far-off singing . . .

A gentle touch pulled her back into reality, grounding her with a sense of nausea. Solas parted her locks, gently untangling them as the withered blooms of crystallised lavender crumbled beneath his fingertips. She had completely forgotten their existence.

Ellaria stared at him, sensing his closeness and unable to comprehend it. The rush of adrenaline was slowly leaving her body, and she felt crippled without the powerful allure. Her limbs became leaden, and there was a heaviness drooping over her eyelids with a welcoming embrace.

The delicate singing dissipated almost immediately when Solas touched her again, looking at her in a fatherly manner. "You're wounded."

Ellaria scowled. "I'm fine."

"I hurt you," Solas breathed, his voice almost cracking with pressure as he ignored her outright denial. Grief lined his red-rimmed eyes and set his mouth into a hardened line.

"It was the mages," Ellaria insisted, pulling away from him. She was desperate to place the blame on something obvious, and wanted nothing more at that moment than to erase the pain she saw brewing in his clouded gaze.

Ellaria scrambled upright, swaying back and forth in the wind as her legs jounced against each other in the ungainly ascent of her awkward limbs. "It was the mages," she repeated. "They did it. They caused the battle and hurt your friend."

Solas merely ignored her, reverting back into a stormy silence as she began to move towards the battlefield. Ellaria glanced at him with a worried look, before turning her attention to the meadow, where her other companions yet remained.

Fresh guilt gnawed at Ellaria for not attending to them quickly enough, blooming and festering in her wounds until it was unmistakeable. _You need to be there,_ she argued, ignoring the smarting pain which consumed her side. _You should be a leader._

The thought, while always lurking in the back of her mind, was so strange that she almost laughed. Instead, Ellaria went to Cassandra with shuffled movements, the tension easing from her shoulders when she saw that the warrior was slowly coming about in a flash of steaming armour and choice words.

Sera was much more difficult to find, and when she was discovered, Ellaria felt only puzzlement as she roused the rogue from her unconsciousness. The blonde elf had somehow managed to intricate herself amongst the underbrush thirty yards to the left, clumsily concealed in the neighbouring trees with a sprained ankle.

Which was made known. Almost immediately. The caterwauling made Ellaria close her eyes in resignation as she was thoroughly berated, and then interrogated for answers about what happened.

She shook her head, relieved that there were only a few scrapes and ripe bruises belonging to her small party, and that there was nothing serious in need of prompt treatment.

Cassandra sheathed her shortsword with a frown, watching as they recovered their weapons from the ravaged soil. "I knew this was a bad idea."

Ellaria sent her a questioning look, hating how much her ribs ached and burned. "The decision was made. You said so yourself, earlier."

Cassandra evenly returned her stare before blinking and giving a slight nod. Her lips quickly sealed themselves, and a soft quietness settled around them as their task was finished in relative peace.

At least, until Ellaria heard the commotion behind them. Surprised, she turned around and cursed herself for being so oblivious to what was occurring near the lake.

The mages who had survived the encounter were pouring out onto the scar-like meadow, their robes dusty and torn from when they had hidden themselves in a small niche towards the shore.

And Solas was glaring at them.

Murderously.

 _Shit_. Dread made her stomach plummet as Ellaria watched the leader of the leftover, scraggly bunch make his way to them in a beaming fashion.

"Whot!" Sera exclaimed, "the glowy-wielders are still alive?"

"They hid from the fight." There was an obvious disgust in Cassandra's tone, and a dark look was quickly forming between her eyebrows.

"Praise Andraste!" the leader shouted, waving eagerly to Ellaria as unbound happiness crossed his bulbous face. "You killed the demon. Truly—truly you are blessed, m'lady."

The mages gathered around her in a semi-circle, looking more and more like a herd of injured halla. She felt her companions bristle in response, and the taste of foul magic still lingered on the breeze. Ellaria crossed her arms and opened her mouth, but was spared the attempt to speak when Solas stalked towards them with a stampede of maddened footsteps.

"You," Solas snarled, confronting the leader. His cerise eyes were blood-shot, and the crazed look in his expression was. . . wolfish. "You caused this. You murdered my friend."

"What?" the man said, clearly taken aback. He raised his sausage-like hands in a placating gesture when he saw that Solas' fingertips were beginning to spark and flare with magic.

"You murdered my friend. You caused this with your foolishness."

The leader's eyes widened in a sudden understanding. "Wait—no!" he shouted, frantically stammering over his words as he cowered and begged. "I understand how someone who isn't familiar with the Fade might think that, b—"

"Enough," Solas barked. "We end this now."

"Solas," Ellaria said, daring to step closer. The dread and guilt that she felt had merged into one undefinable feeling of uneasiness which she could not shake. The knowledge of her having caused this conflict made her seek to resolve it.

Solas twitched, but didn't move otherwise.

"Solas," Ellaria repeated, her voice soft and gentle. She looked at him with wide eyes and placed a shaking hand on his arm. "Don't. Do not do this. You're not thinking clearly."

"Don't?" He spat back, whirling to turn his seething rage upon her. "Don't? I assure you, Herald, that my faculties are completely in order. I am thinking quite fine."

"Give them a chance," she urged, taken aback by his sudden change in demeanour. Ellaria winced at her hypocritical words, but knew that it was too late to back down. Though the mages wholeheartedly deserved the blame, massacring them was far too much to handle.

"You want me to give them a chance?" Solas hissed, his eyes narrowing into unnatural pinpoints. "If someone who had wronged you so completely and thoroughly stood before you this moment at your total mercy, would you not want proper justice?"

He would never know how deeply those words struck her. Ellaria blinked back the wetness pooling in her eyes and stood firm nonetheless. "This is not justice. Killing them is no kindness."

Solas frowned. "And what would you do, Andraste's Beacon?"

She flinched at his wrothful tone before nodding. "I would. . . I would take them into Skyhold, and judge them honourably. They cannot be allowed to roam freely, but murdering them makes us no better than common thugs."

There was a moment when they stood together, and yet apart, their wills and sharp gazes contesting into a form for raw dominance. Ellaria tilted her head upwards, glaring at him defiantly despite her rapid heartbeat at his savageness which poured from Solas' eyes. His breath came out in deep, jagged snorts, like he was struggling for an unknown part of his figure. All tenderness from his presence had evaporated, replaced by a terrifying aspect of him that she had never wished to see, and had never known existed in the first place.

Still, Ellaria stood her ground, and hoped that their friendship wasn't shattered when he turned his gaze downwards in defeat.

"Fine," Solas said, his voice morbidly calm. He broke their contest with a simple terse nod and a scathing, prideful look. "I must take my leave, Herald. I assume that you can find Skyhold without my guidance."

Ellaria watched as he left without another word. She felt her heartbeat slow back into a pitter-pattering normalcy, and was almost certain that if their standoff had continued any further, she would have shattered beneath his stare.

She barely noticed when the leader of the mages approached her. "Gratitude," he breathed, reaching out to clasp her hands. "Yo—"

Ellaria glared at him icily. "Do not think this a mercy. Cassandra, if anyone so much as summons a spell, smite them into oblivion."

The warrior nodded her assent, then began to herd the mages into a loose cluster with a few words of warning. Sera stuck her tongue out at them, then giggled and smirked childishly at their shock.

"You gonna get executed," Sera announced loudly, as she swaggered to and fro like a pirate. "Inky has got a templar boyfriend. He's a bigun, and he's gonna choppa your heads off once she licks 'his l—"

Cassandra looked aghast. "Sera!"

The elfin rogue winked and made a sharp motion. "Cut your 'eads off like _this_."

"Sera, enough!"

"Phrfw! We got enuf mages at Skyhold, we don't need more."

Ellaria barely heard them bicker as she rubbed her temples, already anticipating the headache which was to come at the sudden responsibility. Would she have felt this way had she chosen something different? Would things have remained the same, or would the outcome have ended with some variance?

Honestly, she couldn't tell, and it was aggravating at how much of a loss she felt with the loss of Solas' presence.

She needed to arrange supplies and transport for them to Skyhold, which meant more troubles. And who would judge them? Her? Surely not her advisors, Ellaria decided. This was something that she had brought upon herself, and which needed to be dealt with swiftly.

For the first time in her life, Ellaria wished for a proper templar in her company for safety.

More specifically, she wanted one in particular.


End file.
